Nuke-Nudes Forever: The Penultimate Polka
by Quillon42
Summary: Scott and Kwannon (Asian "Psylocke" with original Asian mind and body also) go to Madripoor to infiltrate a nudist colony in this parody of X-Men Forever's Annual ("The Last Waltz" with Wolverine and Jean Grey in the Caribbean), Forever otherwise, and The Wolverine film. Warning: To be clear, Wolverine is not in this story.
1. Chapter 1: The Mission

(NB: As with some of my other stories, if you'd like, please read my comments at the bottom here for a bit of explanation on this story and such.)

NUKE-NUDES FOREVER: THE PENULTIMATE POLKA

By Quillon42

SOMEWHERE IN THE MIDST OF 1992

In the sauna it was stuffy, but Scott didn't mind; everything was so much simpler in there, with he down only to a Speedo, and with no one around to mind or manage. This was a rare moment for him, an opportunity for him to take advantage of in the coming weeks, in which he could ease back into some sort of pseudo-retirement, to be in Alaska with his family once more. Scott couldn't wait to see Nathan Christopher again, to say nothing about his grandparents. He needed all of this, to get away from the other mutants, the menaces, the madness…

…but most importantly, the mistress of his heart, whom he thought he knew so well, but who so sharply corrected him on that not long after the eternally-wonderful Wolverine was shunted out of this alternate reality's world.

Scott mused to himself in the steamy room, thinking about the whole picture. _I guess I did a pretty good job with the funeral speech for Logan. It was the least I could do for him. I mean, what ill has he ever done by me? Just some small, negligible things…being abrasive with me generally since the day I met him…engaging in spats with me every time imaginable over strategies in the field…snatching Jean away from me at the first modicum of an opportunity…_

…_I mean, I deserved to have her stolen away from me. What a fool I was to think that repairing the Mansion was more important than following the lead on some random-ass mission for SHIELD in the Caribbean. That minuscule transgression of mine singlehandedly warranted losing the woman I've fought Mister Sinister, the Marauders, Magneto, Apocalypse, his Horsemen, his Alliance of Evil , the Brotherhood, the Sentinels, Cameron Hodge, Infernal demons, Judgment-al aliens in outer space, Tyrannosaurs in the Savage Land, and most dangerously Nanny for, or at the very least alongside. All those experiences should be rendered null and void because of one thing I said to Jean…and if but for nothing else just because Wolverine wants her, because that always automatically trumps everything._

_But it's okay. She's my best friend, and just like with Logan, she deserves a pass for anything she does. If I were, say, to dump her for, oh, I don't know…the White Queen let's say hypothetically, I would be lambasted as a fucking asshole. But with Jean, well, she was just following her passions. Distinction completely with a difference as far as I'm concerned; just one single solitary standard to be applied between her and me._

_In any case, despite the fact that she ripped my heart out so graphically that it would make a Kano Fatality look like a copped feel, we're still best buddies. And any favor she wants of me, I would be more than glad to do it. I can remember last decade, in fact, I proved that I was the bestest of platonic pals when I completely scrapped my marriage for her. Impulsively leaving my wife and firstborn child to their own devices in the forbidding hinterlands of the Last Frontier; hey, that's what friends are for._

_Gee, you know, I really like these candies the Professor gave me; he said they're used sometimes to calm horses down. I wonder if they come in any flavor other than crème du toast?..._

Indeed, the man was in a most milquetoasty mood thanks to the tranquilizers that Charles Xavier must have given him after Jean broke it down to Scott regarding where her feelings lay.

Of course, as this author would not hesitate to affirm, turnabout was completely fair play when it came to Scott leaving redheads, or redheads leaving him. In fact, one could find that it was the most poetic of justices that he left his relationship with Madelyne in the Eighties, only here to have Jean leave him in the Nineties.

But why don't we turn the 'bout again a bit?

(After all, once the real, "present" Jean comes out of the White Hot Room at last—none of this Teen Jean or (2013 X-CROSSOVER SPOILERS) Atom-Battle Future Jean stuff—once "the" Jean comes back, the turn will 'bout in the mainstream anyway, with the genuine Grey getting with Wolverine in response to Scott's sleep-a-thon with Miss Frost…as this author predicted a few stories ago. Anyway…)

Scott was still just in Speedo, feeling a bit more refreshed after having toweled himself off from his steam. He was passing through the Mansion's war room, of sorts, just stepping across the center near to the podium when the giant communications screen crackled on.

Cyke leapt back a bit, startled and self-conscious to be only in swim skivvies. Most Mansion inhabitants would feel a bit embarrassed to be seen wearing so little.

_Most_ of them.

"Summers!..."

Scott looked up at the screen to see a life-size image of the visage of none other than Colonel Nicholas Fury once more. It made the man think of his microsecond mistake with Jean again, which righteously and deservedly, of _course_, cost him the love of his life, and he wanted to shuck off his shades despite the horse downers in his system.

He kept himself in check, though, to address the virtual interloper. "Colonel Fury…a pleasure once more."

The soldier on the other end measured the sharp-jawed facial expression of Scott Summers, Fury sensing fury (appropriately enough) in the other and thus deciding to be succinct. The whole Speedo thing was a bit unsettling to the military man as well—but then again, it might have been something very, very opportune, given the circumstances the Colonel was about to lay out.

"Mr. Summers…it is good to, erm…see you once again in turn. My time is short, so I will need to be quick and to the point. In recognition of the outstanding services rendered by your compatriots in the…um…Caribbean mission, and in acknowledgement of the passing of…uh…one of your best operatives, Logan…"

Beyond the initial man-panty shock, the encounter was a mite excruciating for Fury because, while he didn't know these X-People exceptionally well, he was aware of the link between Summers and Miss Grey…and what he heard through the grapevine kind of came of the Caribbean assignment…

…Well, perhaps old Uncle Nicky could make it up to the mutant leader.

In light of this, the Colonel, his face taking on a new, optimistic light: "Mr. Summers…Scott…I've found recently that we need to call on you guys again, for an assignment of the utmost urgency…"

This was met only by the iciest of stares from Summers. Apparently the tranks were beginning to lose their effect within Cyke's system.

"…and you might be the best man for the job." Fury continued, undaunted. "You see, I need a man for this mission who, as I can see in you right now, wouldn't be afraid to roll up his sleeves—and perhaps even do away with the shirt entirely, as well as socks, shoes, the whole shebang."

The Colonel didn't need to see Scott's eyes—he could tell from the suddenly slack jaw—to know that the latter was completely unnerved by the soldier's words.

"Oh, don't worry, son…what you'll be doing won't carry any kind of…slashy connotation, or anything—unless you're into that sort of thing, of course, which is of course perfectly okay."

A stone face from Cyclops.

"Heh, well…anyway. What I really need you for is a job which I would have sent Wolver…er, another on your team for—on his own, on his own, of course—because it involves the ugliest, most fetid armpit in the world—Madripoor."

A raised eyebrow from the stone face of Cyclops.

"There's a…settlement, somewhat, which has cropped up there. One in which the people have…liberal leanings, regarding their outlook on humanity…their openness with one another generally…their attitudes towards being…clad in clothes…or not."

"You're saying that you need to send someone to investigate a _nudist colony?_" Scott asked archly.

"It's not just any nudist colony. Our intel has notified us that two of the most dangerous factions in the world, both of which your people have dealt with—the Hand from the East, and the Hellfire Club from the West—have merged. They've come together on that dastardly isle—they comprise most of the colony, supposedly…and our sources have reported that they've got a nuke."

"A nuke?! We've…we just dealt with that…Fabian Cortez had one on him…"

"Well, maybe he's involved in this, too, then. Anyway, as you X-Folks are very X-perienced…get it, heh, heh…yeeeahhhhh. Well, anyhow, you all have had dealings with Hand and Hell alike, so we figured you could infiltrate the island, perhaps even thwart their plans."

Cyclops nodded slowly as he took it all in. Perhaps if he took this job, he could really show Jean what a man he was…because everything from the last thirty years of adventuring with her didn't amount to a hill of shit, of course.

"I'll do it."

"Good, good, son. But, as with the Carib…as with other jobs I've dispatched before, you're going to need a partner. Someone to put up a front with. Preferably someone who has extensive experience with the Hand, as you have had with Hellfire. Someone else who wouldn't mind wearing next to nothing, or less than that if the duty called for it. Would you, eh…have anyone in mind for it? Perhaps Miss Grey wouldn't…?"

Scott's face darkened at this. There were so many things wrong with what Fury just suggested, not the least of which was the fact that the Colonel was the Anti-Cupid, as far as Cyke was concerned, with that whole Wolverine/Jean mission. No, in all honesty, Scott was about to think of another woman for the job…

"_Scott!"_

…when of a sudden the need to ponder it was obviated: the violet-maned mutant assassin who was just on Scott's mind—the one known as Kwannon burst into the room, the lady clad solely in what was barely a bathing suit, the same skimpy two-piece cinnamon swimsuit which this author mentioned in the Jean/Warren story a few months back, and which was worn a few missions ago in the mainstream, as well as even in this reality, while the mutants were beset by an invasion involving Omega Red.

"Scott," Kwannon repeated, glistening all over with poolwater and out of breath. She took a minute to collect her breath while Scott took a second to leap behind the podium nearby to hide his…pending deflation. Both he and Fury took due and thorough judicial notice of the lady and her present…condition as she hastily caught up with herself respirationwise.

After what was one of the most arresting eyefuls of either man's entire extended, floating-timelined existence, Kwannon once more: "I was…I was out in the Olympic-sized…doing laps again…you know how I like to do that, as often as I can, and I always tell you you should take a break and come on down…but anyway, yeah, while I was swimming, I thought about it, and I decided that yes, you're right…amber-hued cornices would complement azure-colored curtains quite well, in all rooms on the first floor of the house, to reflect the blue-and-gold divisions that Xavier was considering to split our team into.

"The realization struck me so suddenly that it propelled me out of the pool and so I had to rush over immediately just to tell you that."

The two men in the vicinity hadn't realized for a minute, as Kwannon continued to stand there catching her breath, that they had formed their own "Olympic-sized" pools of drool, and possibly other fluids that this author doesn't need to go into right now, all around themselves. Then they regained control for just long enough to address the lady's unquestionable emergency.

"Th…thank you, Kwannon…I'm glad you agree," managed the scantily-Speedoed Cyclops from behind the podium. He had no armor, of any kind, to protect him against this sort of assault.

A bit of an awkward pause, as the former Hand assassin just noticed Fury for the first time, but blushed not at all as she remained at attention most fanserviceably, as shameless as she always was.

The Colonel abruptly looked off to the side. "Well, then, Mr. Summers," he said, a bit hoarse with…distraction, "it looks as if you've found your traveling partner. I will meet with you both at 0600 hours tomorrow at our HQ. The SHIELD email correspondence I'm sending over will explain the rest."

And then the soldier signed off. He was going to discuss more of the mission right then and there, but right now at 1700 hours he realized that he had an, er… private, solitary debriefing he needed to pursue, impromptu, at 1701. It was a good thing his addressees could only see him from the waist up on that giant screen.

When the two mutants reached the ill-reputed island, they found themselves assailed by seediness on all sides. This once-bustling business hub of the Pacific Rim had become rather rundown since the deceasing of one of its most popular patrons, known to them as Patch but known to the rest of the world as The Wolverine. Not unlike the riots that resulted from the slaying of a most Rueful, sacrificial, unbearably cloying tribute during the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games (a narrative whose tournament "Badlands" concept totally does not ape _Battle Royale_, _The Long Walk_, _The Running Man_, _Lord of the Flies_, the Wii game _Mad World_, the NES/Arcade game _Smash TV_, or even N64/PS1's fucking *_Bio F.R.E.A.K.S._* for God's sake, as this author realizes upon playing this last for the first time just now as he writes this story), here too the entire isle erupted once they found that their tourism would tank and their profits would otherwise plummet upon the death of the greatest singular draw to the place. (To be fair, it would have been the case anywhere else on this Earth; this is Master Logan Howlett we are talking about).

At any rate, Scott and Kwannon were taking a good gander at the recent squalor of their new digs, thinking about reaching the transport necessary to get to the colony in question when suddenly:

"Hey there, Chief."

Cyke whirled around to encounter his first nudist on the island—and here, still miles from their quarters…but this one looked familiar. The man had to get around the immense blond hairiness, and the oppressively protruding man-bits that were initially in his field of vision…Scott made his way to the face of the gruff greeter, and noticed familiar features, especially those darkened eye sockets…

"_Sabretooth?!"_

"Yep," said the now-and-again X-Villain, "I'm goin' in on this as well. I ain't taggin' with ya's, though. Jes' overheard the mission Nicky was blabbin' about, and decided I wanted to check it out myself."

Kwannon took a couple more seconds than Scott to process what the defrocked dastard Victor Creed here was packing; she was impressed, but she preferred men who were a bit more…sanitary. Not to mention sane. She felt bad, though, for the man a bit, felt for the electric attack by the woman who was supposedly Storm, which blinded the brash baddy. Although she didn't suffer firsthand what her one-time-psychic-co-opter Betsy Braddock suffered, another blinding back in the day under attack by Slaymaster, Kwannon still got a taste of that kind of pain derivatively through her link with that purple European lady—still got a feel for the loss of eyesight under traumatic circumstances.

That link with the other lady in lavender was dissolved now—in this reality, Asian mind was back in Asian body, and Elisabeth was Euro Psylocke once more. In fact, Betsy was living it up right now, somewhat, enjoying somewhat swankier digs with Excalibur, which took both her and Archangel in as members.

But back to our regular local nudes. (Really, just Victor in this clothing-shorn state, for now, as the Xers present were still under tacky tourist cover for now).

Kwannon gave Victor the once-over once more, because what the hell. "It seems as if, with the whole colony dress code thing…you're a bit ahead of the game, Creed," she said.

"Ahh, I come here like this all the time. Did it to break Logan's balls when he was still around. Or should I say, 'Patch' I guess. He's a punkass by any name in my book.

"Anyway, yeah, I'll fit in right well around here, au naturel or not. Guess it's a shame I can't see anything…usually the people what occupy these colonies are kinda nasty anyway. Wouldn't have minded taking a gander at'_cher_ cover, though, Kwanny!"

The woman did a back flip in response to this, distancing herself a good ten meters more from Creed. In addition to the obvious precaution, she would have literally flipped out at this moment due to his terrible breath, anyway. Scott placed a hand to his glasses and the Tooth smelled the other man's tension.

"Take it easy, Slim, I'm just effin' with ye's. I tell ya, though, given my recent…visual disadvantages, to which I'm sure ya can relate to some extent, Cyke, I may have ta _feel_ my way around the place when I get there…just givin' you losers fair warning."

Kwannon shook her head, making sure to be ready for any of Sabretooth's possible future "feels" with a psychic knife if necessary.

The savage ex-Marauder wasn't a threat right now, though. He sniffed and shot Scott a wry look. "They told youse ye're takin' the Tram, right? Have fun with that, suckers!

"Oh, and by the way, anyone asks you what my name is…I'm usin' an alias. For this assignment, you will know me as Nakedtooth."

And with that, the aforementioned 'Tooth scampered off in this reality, the modification of his codename as uninspired as the altered appellations of similar "Teeth" in Twisted Sony vehicular tournament iterations. Scott and Kwannon watched as he cantered, Creed employing the same goofy gallopy gait perpetrated by Liev Schreiber ever so awfully in an _Origins_ opus years back—which this author knows the reader has been trying so hard to erase from his or her mind since.

(Sorry.)

"Well, Scott," said Cyke's kunoichi compatriot, as she continued to take in Creed's unclothed assets shifting up and down into the distance, "I guess it's the Bullet Tram for us, then."

Indeed it was. This could stand to be the most gripping chapter of the pair's mission—and here, just as the two set out onto the island. Not unlike its ballistically-named counterpart in Japan, the Bullet Tram of Madripoor (not to be confused with the Bullet Tram of Melbourne, or of anywhere else, so apologies to those places and their own conveyances), this vehicle could travel at speeds that far outpaced the velocity of trams elsewhere on any continent. Yea, the speed of such a mechanism, located at a theme or amusement establishment for example, might climax at a full ten or eleven miles per hour—but the Madripoor Bullet, it could reach speeds of up to sixteen, even seventeen MPH if the designated operator were daring enough on a given afternoon.

The two found the appropriate marked lines to wait at, and soon enough the Tram rumbled on in, Scott and Kwannon barely helping themselves in and securing all limbs and luggage inside before the transport took off most huffily.

They took all the sights that could be taken in, considering the latent decrepitude of Madripoorian digs and the breathtaking rate at which the Tram traveled. Suddenly, Kwannon sensed a new presence along for the ride. "Scott," she said, slinking a palm on the man's burly bicep—she never wasting an instant of opportunity to ever handle the man, in any way—"I feel something…someone. It's like…they're Hellfire, as we were informed by the SHIELDies—but also Hand at the same time. I…"

The telepathic temptress was cut off by short bursts of ammunition that tore through the ceiling of the Tram car in front of them. Something was barging in on their barge of a ride—and they had to meet the attack imminently or be neutralized by it.

"Kwan," Scott said abruptly, "you climb up on your end, I'll meet you topside."

A few seconds of awkward clambering later and the pair found themselves on the roof of the most intrepid and deadly conveyance in all of Madripoor. Atop the car ahead was a couple of thugs who looked as if they were wearing ninja togs with mimey-looking masks.

"You will fall to the Handfire Clan this day," one of the men said, he aiming his weapon, which appeared to be some sort of firearm, Scott and Kwannon's way.

From out of the maw of said firearm came kunai knives and flaming projectiles. The assault was reminiscent of the incredible if bizarre barrages that would be emitted from ranged weapons in a particular, Painkilling kind of computer game, which this author owns but cannot play because his laptop is only advanced enough to produce fan stories with atrociously pretentious titles, and not play games.

In any case, well within the time it took to explain the shortcomings of the abovementioned laptop, Cyke and Kwan dodged and ducked the incoming fire, and the former returned with an energy blast of his own, taking out the two who would dare raise guns against them.

The heroes then spun to face new threats which just cropped up behind them upon trailing Tram cars, the two all the while starting to experience the ill effects of hunkering atop the Bullet in all the hyper, low-double-digits-speeded frenzy:

"Ughhh!" shouted Scott, shocked to feel his tacky Hawaiian shirt shredded from his tremendously manly torso, exposing his well-haired chest with its proud pectorals to the world.

"Aghhh!" cried Kwannon, stymied to have her silk top and its underclothing shorn from her own graceful self, exposing her sleek, smooth upper body with its, er…proud…pectorals…to the world.

This was all not unlike what Summers's younger brother Alex endured in the midst of a most Infernal trial, in which Havok hung onto the back of a demonic carriage while pursuing a demonically-possessed Madelyne Pryor, the man's clothing frayed from his frame as he worked ever so desperately to hang on. The rate at which that car careened had been slightly more rapid than that of the Bullet—but carriages and trams were like apples and asparaguses, so to linger on the contrast would not be fair to the poor trams.

In the now, the newly-denuded duo did all they could to hang on to the Tram roof as the thing continued barreling through Madripoor proper at a rate well within the speed limit. Scott continued to blast most optically as Kwannon in this reality could and did throw psychic stilettos at her foes (the latter just because it was convenient for this author and this scene…kind of like how the Governor of Claremontana found it convenient and appropriate for Forever Kitty to spawn a claw on her forearm for no reason other than to keep the Legacy of Logan alive—because God forbid should that ever NOT happen in any X-book ever when a World Without a Wolverine was portrayed.)

But anyway, Cyke and Kwannon pressed on their counterattack against these new, merged threats known as the Handfires, both X-Persons with full hearts and bared breasts as they proceeded. The excitement refused to abate, and this author could daresay that by now it even surpassed that of _The Wolverine_'s Bullet Train scene, as much of a glorified videogame Quicktime Event as it was (speaking of games from a few paragraphs ago and otherwise). Yes, the dreaded QTE was the baleful bane of existence of players everywhere—yet _The Wolverine_'s Bullet Train sequence was regarded by almost everyone as the sixty-second coming of Christ.

(A double standard kind of along the lines of like how if, hypothetically, one were to co-op a first-person-shooter with a friend, and the first guy could enable God Mode while the second did not, the latter would call the former a "bitch"—yet the almost-constantly-healing-factor-ed Wolverine is the "badass" of the battlefield while the perennially mortal Cyclops, who fights alongside but could be hurt and killed much more easily and quickly, is the relative ninny between the two. Right.)

Well, at any breakneck Bullet Tram rate, this sequence that Scott and Kwannon shared would now be the sixty-third coming of some people's Lord and Savior. After several more enemies fell, in fact, an exclamation sounded from what must have been one of the Madripoorian rooftops:

"_PRESSEHHHCKSSS…"_

Cyclops craned his neck against the awesome teens-rate velocity, his mind spinning. He looked to Kwannon, struggled against the maddening speed and more…primal urges to find her eyes. The man then threw a thought to his ally.

_Press for sehhhck…?_

_No, Cyclops,_ abruptly replied his tram-top mate as she held on alongside, _although you could perhaps…hold that thought for later._

_What I believe the voice was prompting, was that we should press THIS!_

And then, torquing her firm, exposed athletic form to avoid more fire and blades, Kwannon reached down, past Scott's unclothed waist, and pushed it.

The man gritted sheepishly, he waiting for that which he had been bashful to say he wanted so badly from his present teammate, when he then noticed that Kwannon was motioning with her head for Scott to look behind him. He also noticed a dull whirr and vibration beneath, on the roof of the car…

[RRRRR—THHHWWWAPPP]

And then, just like that, the two were catapulted from the top of the Bullet, Kwannon's depressing the mutant-appropriate "X"-button atop the car activating a de facto eject mechanism in case of emergency attacks by enemies. (And thus the QTEness of this Bullet scene as well could not be denied).

The pair landed ever so contrivedly in a wagon full of fruit. Each took a second to check his or her own self for any injuries; finding nothing serious, they then checked the fruits of each other's bodies.

Kwannon was pleased to help the old X-veteran in handling the fresh banana and grapefruits that were atop his form, while Scott was glad to perform his duty in grabbing the ripened cantaloupes and peaches that were upon the more neophyte teammate of his.

When each was satisfied, they departed from the cart, sticky from its contents and leery that they were now deprived of their touristy cover. But it mattered not, now, as it turned out that they serendipitously reached their destination.

Within a minute of their defruitification, Kwan and Scott found themselves facing what must have been the gate of the colony. As decadent as Madripoor was per se, the majority of the island's gates or doors didn't sport some kind of lurid flesh color to it, as did this one here. The Xers, realizing more the urgency of their mission than the nudity of their persons, stuck to task at present and prepared to proceed through the door.

"_Gaijin."_

The word, connoting "outsider" in Japanese, made the two of them turn—especially Kwannon, whose origins lay in the archiepelago. Were she not so discreet, she might have turned and slapped a bitch for such an epithet. The lady nonetheless spun around with Cyke to see a petite noblelady and what appeared to be her attendant kunoichi bodyguard, the former wearing very traditional, almost courtly attire, the latter in stealth garb.

"Mariko," said Scott to the former, while Kwannon raised a hand in curt welcome to Miss Yashida's ever-faithful companion (at least in this reality) by the name of Yukio. The latter in this world was sporting the same deep red tresses as the cinematic counterpart from this past summer—perpetrated there so that viewers could attain satisfactory fixes of redheadness, between intermittent hallucinations of a Jean Grey rendition possessing an overwealth of whimsicality and a dearth of dignity.

"Scott…Kwannon. Sorry for the inaccurate epithet, indeed." M'iko made sure to keep her voice low, as many sources of corrupt influence could not find out that she was here at this moment. "You both are always welcome here, in Madripoor or in Japan."

"Boss," said Yukes, clicking some small clawlike blades between her fingers in impatience, "we need to get on with it, all due respect. You know how the jackassy boys get around your house, when you say you're going out for a bit."

"Yes, of course. Listen, Cyclops, Kwannon…you must know that, one, we are aware of your mission as delegated by SHIELD. Know that, should matters go sour, we will cover your…unclothed backs, so to speak. The voice that sounded, prompted you to 'Press X' while the two of you were upon the Bullet Tram…"

"I see. Well, thank you, Mariko," said Scott.

As the noble Yashida acknowledged the hero a second, Yukio glanced his way too, then back at the street idly for an instant—

-then abruptly back at Scott, her eyes widening intensely.

"Two," Mariko continued, "you both must comprehend that what lies behind that door is not only a den of the most prurient iniquity…it also, according to yakuza intelligence, harbors a cult and a plot that may endanger the entire world, in a way which no one has ever encountered before."

"We save the world on a commissioned basis anymore," said Kwannon dryly. "Doesn't matter what the flavor of it is…we've seen it all."

"Not like this, I'm afraid."

Cyke took a calm step forward. "Then what is it, Mariko? What do you mean…"

Before M'iko could respond, Yukio, with frantic, clawy hands: "No…Scott, SCOTT!—it's Scott, isn't it?"

"Uh…yes."

"Yeah…Scott," cried Yukio, she raising up her hands, then biting down softly on one fist (the one without the claw things between the fingers).

"I can see the future—and when I looked at you, a minute ago…I saw _your_ future."

Everyone's eyes were trained on the companion assassin with sheer anxiety as she spoke.

"I see you…naked, as you are right now…but you reach down at one point…to rearrange your furniture, it would appear—even though it's all out in the open…

"And then I see nothing."

Scott blinked a couple of times, interrupting the constantly-firing blasts against his glasses an instant or two. "Nothing?!"

"It's like…your entire private area…becomes an open, gaping void." Yukio's eyes began moistening uncontrollably at this precognition, she feeling a sob coming on for the man even though she just met him—and even though he lacked that irritatingly irresistible male magnetism that Logan had, making Magneto seem like the most metal-repellent motherfucker by contrast.

Yukio went on and on, the tears welling from within. "I can see it…you're reaching down…and there…there's nothing there!" She wiped away the tears as hastily as she could so that she could look upon Scott's smaller cyclops downstairs. "_That—_" she motioned sharply, "will cease to exist."

As the assassin went to the side of the original gangsta X-Man, for a hug of course, she pointed over his shoulder, to a man in the street who was bawling uncontrollably.

"See now, Cyclops," Yukio said, into his ear. "I weep…he weeps…all of Southeast Asia weeps, for the prospective loss of your package."

Thus not unlike the incomprehensible crying of the lady badass in this past summer's Jackmanian tour de force, here too the Eastern redhead lost it completely over a bobo gaijin whom she knew only for so many friggin' microseconds. Across the road, the Madripoorian man was doing all he could to digest some spicy prawns he took down a minute ago, unwisely without water or anything else to douse it.

"Yukio…

"…

"…YUKIO! Our time is up. We must be off." The tiny Mariko had to end up wrenching her bodyguard off the hardbody that was Scott Summers, Yukes clawing at the air in protest as she was led away. The whole time, Kwannon rolled her eyes, unable to accept that her superior form was not the center of attention, or action, in this scene (a sentiment which this author echoed, against the flow of the plot).

"Mariko, wait!" Scott pursued the two a second, throwing out a hand in desperation. "What did you mean a moment ago, by 'Not like this'…?"

"You will have to…uncover the truth for yourself—literally—Mister Summers…" Lady Yashida said mysteriously as she found herself leading her companion away, when she was so certain that it would be the other way around.

In the ensuing hours, Kwannon and Scott ingratiated themselves into the colony of "Nudripoor," shaking hands and embracing (very faintly, on both the heroes' parts) the occupants of the place. By the time evening was reached and the inhabitants broke out into its obligatory bimonthly polka party—a ritual as primeval as the age of the isle itself—the Xers managed to recognize others who were undercover here…on the side of good, for the most part.

Almost right away Scott recognized various SHIELD personnel. Gabriel Jones was showing his stuff without inhibition, in terms of dance moves and, er, otherwise…and boy did he ever have a lot to go around. Across the floor, the granddaughter of Timothy Dugan, Daisy by name, was cutting a bare-all, bare-floored rug in stag fashion, she attracting almost as many looks as her male agent counterpart. By the time she would return home from this assignment, she would be duly notified that her new codename, in respect to her grandpa of course, would be "Damn…DAMN" Dugan, regarding the way she moved (and looked, to be certain) on that floor. In other news, on the floor as well—and unable to secure any dance dates whatsoever, given his own…personal shortcomings, especially in the altogether—was Agent Phil Coulson, a casualty of the Governor of Wheedington's culminating yet overrated _Avengers_ film from last year (yeah, this author said it, without shame or compunction), but also a fixture on the same franchise's new program this fall on ABC! (Yeah, this author said it, without shill or compensation).

Kwannon, in turn—and as she herself was turning on the dance floor, doing all she could to get Scott to join her—the lady noticed some very super starker former Soviets out in the crowd. A very familiar redhead, in particular, who did the rounds just about all corners of the Machine's universe, as well as a lithe blonde with past and present always shrouded in literal darkness. "Come on, Scott," she prompted again, pulling the man to her body, Summers probably and idiotically the only heterosexual male who would waste an instant of reluctance on an incredible woman like this.

He crushed into her clumsily, accidentally, the nakedness making it all the more awkward. "I'm…I'm sorry, Kwan," he offered immediately, pushing off of her magnificent figure abruptly (and to her dismay), "I'm just not…"

"You are, and you're going to do fine. Here, let me lead." And they started off, slowly.

"…How do you know how to polka?"

"Elisabeth must have done some modeling on the European continent. She most likely picked it up there, and left some of it with me after we…disentangled. Now let's you and me…tangle."

Scott and Kwannon proceeded, they linking hands and spinning and twirling. To facilitate the festivity, Kwan threw some polkaic instinct the man's way, so that his muscles and reflexes responded more readily to her movements. Within minutes the two were Polka Prince and Princess of the floor.

The crowd began to gather at the success of the couple, and Scott even began to hazard a smile at all of this. His partner, in turn, upturned a slight, sly grin his way.

"You're enjoying this!"

"Of course, Scott," she said, sultrily, into his ear as she leaned in for the next number—a lampolka, the forbidden member of this family of dance, and a favorite of the colony. After about a minute or two of their gamboling about: "Part of me has been waiting for a moment like this with y…"

"May we cut in?"

Kwannon's head shot to the side from whence the sound arose. The two found themselves facing not a threat, but rather a twosome of other, equally winsome ladies—the ones whom Kwan espied from before.

Scott flinched. "Natash…"

"Ssh! With me—now." And before another word could issue from the Clops, the Widow took her man.

This left Kwannon with the blonde dancer remaining. She looked to the left and the right, then to the other woman, giving her a "Really?" look.

Then: "Laynia…"

"Trust me, Kwannon…come on."

And so the two ladies paired off, they having to participate in the same lampolka as the others. This, as well as the spectacle of Gabe Jones doing this dance with two ladies at once, caused all the non-dancing females to flock around him, while all the non-participating males fixated on Kwannon and her new dance mate.

Fortunately for Scott, this took a lot of the pressure off of him…at least in terms of third party attention.

The fact that he was in the arms of a gorgeous redhead, though-one in the altogether, no less—when he was doing all he could to get his mind off of Jean…well, that certainly didn't help.

"Natasha," he started again, in a low whisper as he went on with the forbidden polka, "this had better be good."

"Oh, so you don't want in on intelligence that could help your mission…as well as something that goes far beyond it?"

"(Sigh). It's just that…well…"

"I know about Jean, Scott."

"?"

Miss Romanova leaned back a second, to perpetrate full immersion in the intense dance she in which she was engaging. Cyke did all he could to look away as she displayed her fine form before him, and he failed miserably, especially as Kwannon's polka programming made him focus fully on his partner at all instants.

"Jesus, Tasha…you're making this so fucking hard."

"Yes…I can feel that."

An awkward pause. "No…I meant…"

"I know what you meant. Lighten up, Scott. …But listen up, also."

He looked her full in the face through what he perceived to be his accursed rose-colored glasses. "Aren't you supposed to be with Peter…?"

"I was getting to that." She spun him round and round, then crushed him to her once more. God, but he missed Jean. "He left me."

"Whaaa…? Who the hell would ever leave _you?_"

Natasha looked down and blushed a second. "Thank you, Scott. Who the hell would leave me…would be someone who has a date with a much…warmer redhead than me, I suppose. You might know her."

Scott stopped in mid-spin, almost tripped and fell despite the subconscious polka commands. "J…"

"Yes, her. Christ.

"Danielle Moonstar was the one who told me. She's the current President of CTCFC…Chicks Too Cool For Codenames, the international cadre of heroines who use only their real handles for heroing. You know, like Moonstar herself has on many an occasion…Kwannon, of course, has always a member…I heard that Kitty Pryde's dropping 'Shadowcat' and thinking of joining…"

Yes, in this reality, Kwan never took on the name "Revanche," mainly because this author figured it would be too goddamn confusing between the reader thinking about Kwannon and Betsy and who the hell Psylocke was here (it's just Betsy; European mind in European body). But, like, Kwannon/Revanche in mainstream Earth-616 was the Asian mind in the European body and here in this author's spin on the Forever reality it's like Asian mind in Asian b…OH FUCK IT, LET'S MOVE ON.

(And, of course as well, and to be fair, in this reality there was a male counterpart to the Chicks here, which was DTDFD, or Dudes Too Douchey For Dog…tags or some shit. It included people like Mikhail Rasputin, Rusty Collins (he had no aliases in this reality), and some others. But, as they say in _Airplane_ (the movie), "that's not important right now").

"But, yeah," continued the Widow, "the woman you once knew as Marvel Girl, then dropped it to be the big Jay-G, she's taken on a new codename, and hence has resigned from CTCFC. _And_ supposedly, according to some inconsistent intelligence accounts…she has a new agenda…although I am not cognizant of all that it might entail."

Scott could only stare as Natasha continued. (Stare at her _face,_ mind you…unlike so many other eyes around the place (and admittedly unlike this author's imagination, at the moment), the mind and blasty pupils of Cyclops belonged to a real gentleman).

"To completely mock me, especially in light of her taking Piotr away from my embrace…she's calling herself the 'Grey Bereaved Girlfriend' now. I do not know her intentions fully, but men are falling into her arms—then falling out of them, directly into the grave. And Peter…he has already been so…so claimed."

She then hunkered into Scott, to wring out the tears from her eyes. (And damn, but you would think there would be some sort of quota for amazing sobbing redheads for a man to hold in a given day).

"Natasha…I'm sorry."

"…Thank you. But I don't know if you've heard about it…Henry McCoy's already done for, also. It's really bad."

"_Hank?!_ Surely you can't be serious."

"I am." Fortunately for the sake of staving off a hurricane of corniness, the Widow never saw _Airplane,_ so the predictable "And don't call me Shirley" line never issued.

(God…first repeated Train references a couple of stories ago, and now _Airplane_…so much free association with transportation-titled items for some reason. Next story this author will be probably making references to things being "Titanic"…and then he'll go off himself).

The Widow was almost done her dance, as well as her warning. "Jean…she has men, for about a week or so…then they're done for. And she supposedly isn't even the one who's behind their demise…she's just such a jinx now, she makes the Scarlet Witch look like Domino or fucking Longshot.

"I'm telling you, Scott…she's apparently become the Marilu Henner of the X-Men, or so I hear…"

"You guys get _Taxi_ reruns in Russia now?"

"Oh, those are reruns? ...Well, whether it's new or old, as I have no idea, we just started getting them…along with the release of the Atari 1300."

The series of lampolka numbers finally abated, and Natasha disencumbered herself of the Clops. "You dance well, Scott," she said, bowing gracefully. "…I would ask for a date, but you seem to have your hands full with the shimmering violet you came in with…and I'm sure you're goddamn sick of women with flaming tresses by now at any rate."

Cyke shrugged sheepishly. "It's okay," he said, somewhat under his breath, "…Scarlett Johanssen and the Governor of Liuwaii doublehandedly ruined you for me, anyway."

"Come again?"

"Nothing." _And you're one to talk about Marilu Henner,_ Scott added mentally—although with the way he was making out on this mission so far, Cyke himself was starting to become not unlike the founder of a dirty, risqué rabbit-eared men's adult magazine, said founder with a similar-sounding surname to that of the _Taxi_ thespian.

At any rate, before Scott could protest in denial at the Widow's line regarding Kwannon, the ginger agent was already gone.

It was evening now, and the undercover, coverless couple that was the Kwan and the Clops was strolling along the small bit of strand that the colony claimed. Over the past few hours, Xavier's most birthday-suited students used their time wisely by following leads, collecting intelligence, and stealing glances at one another's goodies—all in the name of their nuke-neutralizing objective, of course.

"So Natasha was telling me that this whole plot might go beyond the launching of a nuke just for the sake of it," Cyke said to his kunoichi cohort, the man training his gaze for a spell on the crashing of small wavelets along the shoreline. "Supposedly there are some individuals with an interest in deriving power off the life force of others…some sort of 'ginger vampirism' or so I'm told."

Kwannon linked her beautiful naked arm in Scott's, all the while rolling her eyes once more as she knew exactly where this was going. The woman in wisteria locks wanted him, so fucking badly, but everything in the world this man talked about always inevitably wound back the hell down to…

"Jean, Kwannon…it's Jean. She's involved in all of it, I was told, and…"

"Could we not talk about her—about this, right now?"

Scotty blenched at this. "But…but it has to do with the mission!"

"I don't care." With this, Kwannon stopped their gait with a tug on his arm. She collapsed down onto the sand, fully onto her sumptuous unclothed bottom, and almost pulled the sad sack that was Scott Summers, with his bazooka biceps, outstanding twenty-four pack, and contradictorily proud package almost directly on top of her, which she didn't mind at all.

Hastily the man hefted off of her, dusting himself of sand in the process. Kwannon merely continued to sit back, watching the breakers for a moment.

"I know, Scott, that you only talked about her just now for all of a few seconds, but…enough about Jean already. She sucks."

"?!"

"Everyone goes on and on about her constantly in the Mansion. I could puke enough to make Holden Caulfield and Sylvia Plath, combined, blush."

"…

"…?!"

"Nevermind."

They sat there, Kwannon minding Cyclops from the corner of her eye and shaking her head.

"You know, Scott, you just don't know when you have it good. You're here, on the other side of the world from ElectricProfessor LeashLand, and with tons of women in the buff to boot. And I…*I* could have my pick of the litter here also. Gabe Effing Jones was giving me the eye, for God's sake. That man, with his patented horn, and everything…"

"Well, why didn't you…"

"Because, as you would say…we're on a _mission._"

A long pause. A silence more pregnant than all of Kate Gosselin's placental occupants cohabiting, all at once.

Then:

"Laynia told me, while she and I were dancing, a bit about what I'm sure the Widow was discussing." As remnants of Betsy still residued in her psyche, Kwannon pronounced the verb participle as "_don_cing," which Scott thought to be damn sexy. But that, of course, didn't begin to touch the tip of the iceberg of erogeneity that was the woman with whom he reclined utterly nude on this beach.

"Laynia," said Scott, "she's…"

"Yes. Laynia Petrovna. Known as Darkstar to fellow adventurers. She came here with Natasha by Russian authorities, on the same assignment as we did. It's legit, don't worry; they're on our side, of course."

Scott nodded.

Kwannon: "She was telling me that she and Tasha hadn't been able to gather nearly everything on the nuke plot yet…but, just as with Yukio, she preempted the matter with a more…immediate concern, that involves you…and me, too."

With this last phrase, the lady set her slinky, lithe hand on Scott's bicep once more. The man started to stiffen, in much the same way he did in his Speedo back at the Mansion, and Kwannon of course picked it up now as she did then.

"Laynes told me," she continued, turning her body over from a supine position to face Scott full-on, making it _so_ difficult for him to pay attention, "she told me that, just as her body contains that ebony extradimensional energy known as the Darkforce…you and I've got it as well."

Scott's jaw started to slacken, partially at the idea of his form holding Darkforce, and partially at the magnificent violet-gold gloriousness that was starting to curl up next to him, a bit more snugly than he expected.

"I asked her, Scott, while we were polkaing, where I had it…the Darkforce." Kwannon then flexed the forefingers of one hand back toward herself, in motioning for Scott to sit up a second, which he complied with most submissively.

"And then," she said, grasping Cyke by both shoulders, holding him close enough to put her face past his right shoulder, "she did this."

The next thing Scott felt was the warmest, most tender sensation he'd ever felt, as the woman's bare stomach rubbed, rippled ever so softly, so lushly against his own. Beads of sweat broke from his temples and ran down, only to be licked away seconds later by the alluring, undulating lady.

"Kwann…I…"

"Shut the _fuck up,_ Scott."

An instant after this line, whispered sharply and delivered out of heat and not spite, Kwannon claimed Scott's mouth entirely with her own. Her smooth belly continued to ripple against his abdomen, hardening him all the more as her lips continued to crush against his, she running her hands down his back and making the hairs there tense. At first the man's rigidity came more from the shock of Kwannon's forwardness...but unable to resist her overwhelming advances (as would be the case with any organism in the universe who was into women, when it came to Kwannon) the hero relented, he giving himself to her in kind, the man actualizing his most recent and most vivid fantasies by coursing his palms along the supple, naked cheeks of her ass, goose pimples breaking out down there right at his fingertips.

They continued kissing for several minutes more, the parley of their tongues the most gratifying physical exercise either of them had ever experienced, past paramours included. Kwannon's fingers continued to finesse Scott all over as his mouth traveled down the woman's body. The gliding of her teeth across his tongue, the pillowing of her lips repeatedly yet softly and caressingly against his cheek, the slinking of her hands below to grasp and clutch, these were fiercely liberating sensations per se. For Scott, the tasting of the lady's proud, prodigious wide-nippled breasts with parched lips of his own; the coursing of his own tongue along the lean curves of her bare belly; the deliberation of his lips upon the insides of her golden thighs...these were partakings in perfection reserved for only an infinitely-lucky two or three men out of all of time. This was something, an aggressive, unbridled beauty and heart who was taking him, not the other way around, for once.

Throughout the course of this, they conversed, through a psychic rapport to which Scott was actually more accustomed, than was Kwannon-but the exchange was enjoyed by each with equal intensity.

_You can't imagine...how long I've wanted this, Kwann..._

_...Oh, no?_ The woman uttered a very slight laugh through pursed lips as she caressed his chest with her mouth, then rose up again before his beglassed eyes to address him without speaking. _You think I haven't had free access to all your fantasies this entire time?_

_It's just been so stressful lately...so many problems going through my mind..._

_So much going through your mind...so much pain, huh?_ Kwannon returned psychically, pressing her chest closer to his. _I know your mind better than you do._

_What do you think has been the one image that has gone through your mind the most, these past several months, Scott? You think it's been something like Sinister's shady visage? The face of your longtime love?_

Scott stopped rubbing his hands across the lady's back a second as she leaned away a second to make eye contact with him once more.

_I've been monitoring you mentally, Mister Summers-just from time to time, but it's been more than enough. _

_Has there been one five-minute increment since Omega Red One, when the thought of me running to respond in that infinitesimal bikini, soaked to the skin with poolwater all over, hasn't crossed your mind?_

The man started to open his mouth to reply, but she closed it with her own lips, teeth, and tongue.

A moment later, her fingers stroking one of his shoulder blades slinkily. _I bought it with you in mind, of course. I said to myself, What could I do...what could I _wear_...to wrest his attention away from everything that's ever bothered him?_

_What little stunt could I pull, to get Scott to smile for a change?_

_And you, with "Sorry, no time for levity, Psylocke."_ Her lower tone at this quote mocked the man, but playfully.

_Kwannon...you have no idea how badly part of me wanted to...fall to my knees and...relieve you of your little swimwear encumbrance, right then and there..._

_Part of you, huh?_ She grabbed him beneath the waist, but gently. _Here: let me lull you to sleep, right here on this beach...I'll dream and take you along; we can go back to the Omega alarm and you can show little old poolwater-glistening, bikini-clad me exactly how _part_ of you would relieve me of my swimwear..._

The pair engaged in another impassioned, tongue trysting kiss-the two about to engage in a more consummate way, all completely open and raring for it in their ready-nudeness-when the hard reality of Handfire came crashing down upon them.

END OF PART ONE OF THREE; TO BE CONTINUED

"INTERWORD" (I just invented that term)

You don't have to read the next few paragraphs, of course, if you don't want to do so; it's not necessary to the understanding of the story (unless you didn't read _X-Men Forever_, in which case you might want to read on).

I've had this story, in one form or another, in the back of my mind, off and on for like twenty years. Supposedly the "Governor of Niciezabraska," as I would call him (ie Fabian Nicieza...you know how I like to refer to Machine writers and artists as jurisdictional "governors," he had an idea to have Scott run off with...Betsy, really (although if you read these stories, they tell you that at least at one point, both Psylocke and Revanche have both Betsy and Kwannon within each of them...well, let's just say "Betsy" for Nicieza and his plans right now, although the violet lady above in my story so far is ALL Kwannon).

Yeah, reading those old stories...one can cut the sexual tension/connection between Scott and Betsy with a knife. I guess the part of me that is always (annoyingly, I'm sure, to some readers out there) beholden to the older Eighties stuff, with purple-haired European Psylocke and all, wants to keep that memory pristine or something; as such, I had this story be about Scott and the lesser-known Kwannon rather than about Scott and Betsy. Both women (Kwannon and Betsy) are equally strong, sexy, powerful, intelligent, wonderful; again, I guess I just went with Kwannon because of the whole Eighties Nostalgia thing with European Betsy Psylocke etc.

As the general description out in the story lobby reads, this story on the whole makes fun of the _X-Men Forever_ annual, as well as a couple of general aspects of that series in addition to _The Wolverine_ film. Regarding the annual for _Forever_, I just thought the plot was ludicrous: "Hey, Wolverine, SHIELD needs you and Jean to go to a Caribbean Island, posing as newlyweds and wearing next to nothing, while investigating a Hand conspiracy or something." Scott's relationship with Jean thus goes out the window for the sake of this random Hand job (pun of course intended, as this whole story was frankly the most circular of possible jerkings), and he's left out in the cold. I know it was all in the name of fanservice for Wolverine and all, but what the eff _isn't,_ anymore?

Now, now, now, I know what you're thinking. "But Scott essentially left Jean for Emma etc etc etc." Yes, and touché, fair enough I say, to that. My response is, the Forever annual was still BS, IMO; the story I'm doing here is my response to it, in all its own respective idiocy. ALSO, as I implied in my Honeymars story, through Jean's "prediction," you gotta imagine that the REAL Jean (not Past, not Future, not AOA, not bla bla bla whatever and ever amen), she's gonna come out of that White Hot all white and hot for Logan, and they're gonna get it the hell on. As Scott and Jean are—actually as of now—my second place OTP (Scott and Maddy, I've realized through my writing of late, are now and for all time my first place OTP, and I will reinforce this hopefully with a real megastory next month)—as I really like Scott and Jean in any case, I view an impending union of Wolverine and Jean, which honestly horrifies me, as what Peter Griffin says in _Family Guy_ is like sexual intercourse with Kobe Bryant: "You can kick and scream all you want, but…it's gonna happen." It's just effing inevitable.

Again, I love Scott, and I love Jean as well. In all honesty, the "Marilu Henner" crack I made about her in this story is not railing against her per se, so much as what Claremont decided to do with her in the Forever series, with her going from Logan to Hank so quickly. Now, now, now, again: I totally understand that from the Sixties to the Nineties, Jean basically only had Scott, so she's totally entitled per se; Scott, on the other hand, has gone at this point from Jean to Colleen Wing (for a split second) to technically the Alien Phoenix Clone to Lee Forrester (for two split seconds) to Madelyne and all. As such, between Scott's history, and his postmillennial bonding with Emma, yes, I agree, Jean should get around a bit herself. Still, I don't know…I just don't like the way Claremont did it in _Forever_. I just couldn't help but say to myself, "in Earth-616, Madelyne's a clone of Jean; in Earth-161 (Foreverland), Jean's a clone of Marilu." I'm sorry. But I don't take it back. To be fair, I am doing all I can here for Scott to be the Hugh Hefner to Jean's Marilu Henner here (Re: rabbit-eared adult men's magazine reference above).

In the same vein, I hope no one was offended by the "All of Southeast Asia weeps" line of Yukio. Here, I am NOT mocking Yukio, and certainly not Southeast Asia; I am mocking the _The Wolverine_ film, as it has Yukio bawling her eyes out over this bobo whom she's known for like a day and a half. It's just like some people theorize that the passion between Logan and Jean isn't earned in the movies because they only knew each other or so long (while *I* agree with that and argue even further that it isn't even earned in the comics themselves—I could go on and on about how the REAL Jean only knew Logan from like UXM94 to 100 or so, then the Alien Phoenix took over, and then Real Jean didn't see Logan again till like UXM242 in Inferno, etc etc etc (although yeah yeah yeah about how Real Jean might have inherited the Phoenix's memories, perhaps, as she did Madelyne's…I don't know…I admit I don't know everything about this, but to me I still maintain that the passion between Logan and Jean isn't earned anywhere)). Yukio is cool and all that, whether in the film or in the issues; again I'm making fun of the film here.

I really love Scott and Jean as a couple, bottom line; I just wanted to give Scott a breath of fresh air here that wasn't a trillion percent Emma-based sleaze (and speaking of her Ivory Majesty, she may be a force behind the abovementioned nuclear scheme, as we may see very soon…) And after all, I'm sure some people are with me on the idea that Kwannon/Psylocke/Betsy/Purple People Generally seducing Scott is a googolplex times sexier than the same orchestrations the vanilla ice queen (again pun intended, as Emma is IMO only almost as sexy as Robert Van Winkle). By the way, also, in my stories as I kind of explained in this story above, "Psylocke" is just the European Betsy Braddock, while "Kwannon" is the Asian mind inside the Asian body. They tangled up in the past, then became untangled. That simple; just to be completely clear and stuff.

Anyway, I hope you guys are liking this so far; the rest of this story is up now, Parts Two and Three alike, so if you are enjoying what's come so far, then I'm gonna make like a Choose Your Own Adventure directive and tell you to Go On To The Next Page...(this story is not a CYOA, just to be clear again here:))


	2. Chapter 2: The Missile

(NB: This second part contains a lot of fighting and not so much…loving, so to speak…though there are some steamy parts sort of, including the first few paragraphs below in fact. In any case, if it's the real "business" between Scott and Kwannon you're seeking, it's really in Part Three of Three, which is the next and final chapter.

Also, I will in the Afterword of Part Three explain a bit more about the "Darkforce" voids in Scott's…nether area and Kwannon's stomach, but in the meantime, you can check out, through Google Images or what not, the covers to X-Factor (Volume 1) Issues 1 and 67, in addition to X-Men Volume 2 Issue 5, and/or put in "Cyclops Psylocke" in Google Images, and look for the one image about two rows in with Cyclops and Colossus and Psylocke—the latter in a cherry red swimsuit—to get a literal picture of what I mean by said voids.

NUKE-NUDES FOREVER: THE PENULTIMATE POLKA

By Quillon42

PART TWO OF THREE

It seemed as if it were weeks later when Kwannon and Scott had awakened. In truth, it was a matter of minutes…but the images that the two heroes experienced in that time were ones that would stay with them for the remainder of their lives.

In particular, the dreams the heroes had while they were being delivered by Handfire henchpeople to their stripped superiors were of a rather stimulating nature. Cyke and Kwan continuing to clutch at each other on that beach, continuing on into a collaboration of consummation which neither had ever experienced with any other individual. Even an eon with a Phoenix Jean, real or cloned, could not, for Scott, begin to approach the chaotic, exotic wildness that was Kwannon.

Another fantasy. Kwannon and Scott in bed, both in their Madripoor colony birthday attire. She looming over him in domination, he looking up at her with the most relaxed of smiles on his face. It was a fantasy deep within her which Earth-616 readers of a certain Soul-Skinning episode had witnessed in existence deep within the woman's mind (there, technically the mind of a lady both Betsy and Kwannon, but anyway), during a mission in Russia. That fantasy persisted within Kwannon's subconscious in any reality—but here, unlike in 616, Scott's mind was actively participating in it as well.

Several more permutations of passionate positions between the two, about another baker's dozen more, they coming together, on the kitchen table in the Mansion; in an airvent Kwannon infiltrated in Genosha, while still mentally cohabitating with Elisabeth; on a relaxing green on Muir Island. Then before either knew it, each awoke to find the self in a rather oppressive personal bind.

Scott and Kwannon stressed and strained at the bonds that hold them, ropes that held them fast to poles sticking up from the ground, polka poles used when the dance fusion of choice switched from the lambada that Cyke did with Widow to a more lowgoing limbo type. The Xers did their best during the ritual dances, indeed, to perpetrate the limpolka as well as the lampolka, Kwannon holding a hand over her mouth in derision as she watched Scott try to clear the pole at two feet off the ground, then fail miserably. The specific spectacle worthy of amusement in her eyes was another, rather organic pole emanating from the Clops himself as he noted Kwan out of the corner of his eye throughout that whole ordeal; certainly he did not (at least yet) suffer from the particular pelvic void which Yukio predicted would afflict him.

She thought about this even now, as she had no inkling of the danger impending either of them, despite her usual telepathic talents. Her psionics were dampened to some extent on this island, and at the moment the reception was exceptionally bad. At the end of the day, though—here, literally—Kwan got off with the Clops, and in a Zen sort of "living-for-the-moment" mentality, she could honestly die happy because of it.

The man imprisoned with her, though, was his usual fretting sort, Scott sporting his patented grimace of constipation as he did all he could to free himself. It was of no use; what was holding him back more than anything was what appeared to be a shining red bustier covering over the entirety of his features. It was an arresting sight, if not a bit sketchy of one; Kwannon a few paces away wondered if Scott could truly be hating the moment one hundred percent, given what was restraining him facially.

For certain, the O5G (that's "Original Five Gangsta" for the uninitiated) might have relented a tiny bit, if he were aware of the woman to whom said article of underclothing belonged. Of course, she wouldn't have required it anyway, in a place like this.

But one could never be too careful…especially with latent changes in the composition.

"I see you struggling against the Quartzet, my man," said a cold-as-ice voice from across the chamber the heroes occupied. "You might as well quit; you won't…penetrate a fabric of that sort."

Cyclops's head perked up at the sound. "I know who that voice belongs…"

"Yes, yes, Mr. Summers," the menacing inflection went on as its owner stepped fully into view—the gelid golden-maned girl who usually only wore mere wisps of white, the most frigid blonde of all time. Only now, of course, she did as the Madripoorians did when it came to attire, or lack thereof. "I can dispel the mystery for you; just because you've got plastered to your face a ruby quartz corset—property of and worn by _moi_, on many an occasion, including recently—it doesn't mean you should be kept in the dark as to who I am."

"The WHITE QUEEN!" Scott exclaimed, most action-figurely. At this moment in time, as it was still the early Nineties, Miss Frost had still been to Scott nothing more than just another threat, just another hoity-toity Hellfire honcho, little more than basically a level boss in a Konami arcade game.

For Emma, on the other hand, Scott was, unlike her lover Sebastian Shaw, the monolith without the monster inside, the obelisk without the obscenity. He was pure power without the prurience, a big white lamb, shorn now before her in his nakedness, which she wanted to cook and eat alive in a most sensual kind of way.

Of course, again, Emma too was shorn of her own…wool…making her usual costumed appearances into white, white straitjackets in contrast.

And with her, a ram too occupied the space, a ram with the absolutely funkiest of metaphorical horns affixed at the top of his haughty head. "Matsu'o!" hissed Kwannon as her own, un-corset-beset eyes noted this other threat emerging into the chamber as well, again unbeknownst to her till now as her telepathy was totally tapped out at the moment.

"Yes, my love," said the sinister gangster Matsu'o Tsurayaba as he approached his former lady, the wayward strands of slick black hair serving as the aforementioned horns atop his head, the follicles flanging out in every direction, Nippon's proverbial porcupine of a psychopath. "I have longed so for a reunion, and now you are returned to me…most gloriously, I might add."

"It is very glorious…isn't it," Emma chimed in, "I suppose for you especially and ironically, Kwannon, as you seem so much more glorious without your Gloriana…without Elisabeth Gloriana Braddock, that is, holding you back with any inhibitions whatsoever. Our Clan members found you and Scotty here quite…entangled when they found you…possibly even more blended together than you ever were with Betsy…"

"ENOUGH, FROST!" shouted the Queen's partner in crime, he seeming somewhat miffed at the idea of another man with his girl, especially this optically-shooting…square. He approached his ex with fury. "The love I had for you…it was never sufficient, was it, Kwannon? After I gave you as much of my world as I could…"

The violet-maned mutant could take note, as her former man came up to her, of several small rings adorning the shocks of hair that went every which way from Matsu'o's scalp. Each ring was of a different color and style; it made the woman think of another enemy from Tsurayaba's part of the world, one whom she faced not long after her…merger with Elisabeth, one not from the Rising Sun, but from the Middle Kingdom…the Mandarin himself.

Not unlike some readers at present, most likely, Cyclops wanted everything to get to the frigging point. "What do you plan to do with us? What's your game, The White Queen?"

Always so formal.

"First, Scott, I must insist…as per my organization's merger with the Hand…I am now to be addressed as The White Mikado." The shorn cream countess approached the man as gingerly as a non-ginger could, she wrapping her alabaster arms around the neck of her Cycloptic captive as she held him close. Although "Mikado" was almost exclusively a title for male Japanese rulers, Emma saw her taking of the title as a happenstance of…mutation, she could say in a most pat manner.

Nearby, Kwannon seethed at the sight of the Mikado with her hands all over Scott, Matsu'o, noticing Kwannon, was seething at said seething.

Amidst the shitload of seethings, Emma: "First, my little maroon-mugged morsel: the contumacious compatriot with whom I share my throne at present, we are going with Polka Plan Alpha: Each of us offers to you an opportunity to become our consorts, to share in the orgiastic experience…of power, of course…in the plot which we are to see through imminently. Of course, you will 'hook up,' as the perdition-pending youths of today say, with me, while Kwannon shall return to the ex-man she had… before the X-Man that is you."

Cyke felt the cold breasts and the colder heart of Emma Frost beating brashly against him as she smothered the man, began to plant her icy lips upon his cheek. It still didn't amount to what he just experienced on that beach, with the new recruit who had admired him these past several months. For the sake of honor, he almost responded with something along the lines of "I'm not Kwannon's man," and he most likely would have gone through with the statement…had he not then thought of the sublime magnitude of the violet mountains majesties belonging to the woman whom he came in with. As such, his still-very-extant package preempted his tongue.

Kwannon, likewise, thought first and foremost of the bed she moved most monumentally in her mind with the Clops, as well as the quite existent Alaskan Monument emanating from him. So she resisted, although she was a tad more vocal about it. "I'm NEVER getting back with you…you mulleted mook," she spat at Matsu'o. "You and that six-armed spazcase Spiral mix me up—literally—with a boring-ass British governess…then refuse to cut your hair after a million admonitions by me.

"You'll never get it to look like The Logan's, you know, as much as you effing try."

At this Matsu'o wanted nothing more, lusted for nothing more than to strike Kwannon. Emma sensed this and met him at the pass midthought, reaching with a gesturing hand as she went along mentally as well. Then she turned back to her original target.

"Scott," the White Witch said, holding her denuded self closer to Scott's own naked form, "I want nothing more than to be your own little ice sculpture…melt me with your power…meld with me…"

If you asked him in another ten years, then of course fuck yeah. But again, this was still the Early Nineties, and Scott Summers still had to multitask navigation through a very polluted mainstream, as well as the getting off of so many redheaded rocks in his system (which he did in 616, of course, particularly through a rocky-ass marriage to Jean). In this reality as well, he still kept the gorgeous Grey in sight, though she wanted nothing to do with him, and everything to do with every other organism ever. Scott could be convinced, by the right woman, to focus his emotional allegiances elsewhere.

Nonetheless, Emma, at this time, was not the right woman. (Actually, she was never the right woman, when one thought about it for .00000000001 seconds.)

"I'm…I'm sorry," said Cyke, from underneath his crimson corset, "but—and especially for a 'bad girl,' ironically—you're just too vanilla plain for me."

The Queen fumed so much at this that her porecelain flesh flushed a more pallid shade of pink. "Vanilla plain?! …Vanilla plain. Okay. If that's how you want to play this.

"Matsu'o! It seems as if we'll have to go with Polka Plan Omega. It appears that our guests don't want to be with the Alpha Dogs."

Kwannon was tiring of all this. "If it means we don't have to deal with…Delta Bags, like you," she shot, sneering especially at her ex-"man" Tsurayaba, "we'll gladly go with the opposite of Alpha."

Emma ignored the other, six-out-of-five-dentists-would-say-was-sexier woman, and scowled at Scott. "You're not into someone so vanilla plain. My fucking creamy white ass. You don't know what you're missing.

"You prefer someone like…" and she thought of pointing at the violet kunoichi nearby…but she didn't want to strain things with Matsu'o any more than they had already been, by slandering his former lady. "You prefer someone like that…ruddy fucker you have at home? You prefer gingers, is that it?!"

"Well, whichever side you would have…jerked to this evening, Scott…it would have meant the end for people like her. Our Plan Alpha only allowed you to live and thrive so you could share the world that Matsy and I here were going to usher in."

Ignoring the pained wince Kwannon displayed at hearing her old love's name be butchered so, "Matsy" stepped in to take over the explanation: "Plan Omega involves you living long enough only to watch the fireworks…then have your life essences be claimed for our cause. HANDFIRES!"

With the gangster's prompt, attending henchpeople pulled back a curtain nearby, so that a screen was unveiled. Through grainy grayness on the monitor, Scott and Kwan could see the very obelisklike objective of their mission.

"The nudists' nuke," Cyke muttered.

"Not just any nuke…or nudist's nuke, for that matter," Matsu'o continued, "but rather, the means by which the Heroine of Hellfire and I shall run the ENTIRE COSMOS!"

"And gingers like your beloved Dumbing-Denim-Jeannie-Pants will fuel our fury," Emma said. "You see, Scott, we weren't just looking to…lay waste to countries, and then take them over after the fallout. For certain, Matsu'o and the Hand would never agree to something that decimated his own nation."

Kwannon shook her head and shrugged with incredulity. "Yeah, I was about to say. Still, what the fuck…'Matsy'?!"

"Our mission," answered the gangster, glowering at his old girlfriend, "was to activate and detonate this specially-designed nuclear missile, powered in part with the special sauce of residual energies found at the bottom of Jamaica Bay—yes, where your beloved Alien Phoenix was born, Scott Summers—with the detonation set to wipe out only those with the ginger gene within them.

Scott stood slack-jawed in his truss-up. "Your weapon is designed only to destroy _redheads?!_ But why?!"

"Consider the world in which we live now, Scott," said Emma as she now stepped up to the maniac mic. "The ostenble 'mutant menace,' it's been around for at least several decades…but the real menace, it started cropping up around the Eighties or so, and it's only been snowballing—or should I say fireballing—ever since.

"Everywhere you look in our universe—any of the permutations of our multiverse, actually—there's a redhead in play. Of course, on your teams there's your own erstwhile beloved, whom I've heard is now the beloved of a bevy of other suitors…"

Scott steamed at this as Emma went on. He noted out of the corner of his eye, even through the ruby quartz corset smothering his countenance, that there were shadows seemingly getting darker as the woman spoke…but he focused on the gorgeous unclothed blonde before him, instead, because he didn't want to give away what distracted him (and also, because would you really pay attention to anything else, in any hypothetical permutation, other than said blonde, especially under such vestment-divested circumstances?!)

"But yes," she continued, "you all also had Madelyne, and Rachel, and technically Alien Phoenix…and I can tell from limited precognition that you will have this insufferable, accountability-alienated twit named Hope…"

"And Iron Man has his Bethany Cabe, Spider-Man has Mary Jane Watson, the Inhumans have Medusalith Whatsherface…" added Matsu'o. "Rick Jones has Marlo Chandler, Stephen Strange at least knows Satana…even the fucking Punisher, whom we thought would be the last bastion against redheaddom, is going to have this Kill Bill reject named Rachel Cole in time, according to Emma's precognitions."

"And everyone else, they basically have friggin' Black Widow," Emma continued. "Even you, Scott, it would seem—if only for a 'lampolka'ing moment, huh."

She took a breath. "Then there's the awful changeovers…people who will turn red in time, which makes things go from bad to unbearable. You know Theresa Rourke, or Siryn, to have peanut-butter hair for right now, but she's going to red out in no time. The same goes for Alicia Masters, at least sometimes in her future. For Christ's sake, even this one like motherfucking NORDIC BLONDE named Elsa Bloodstone, who's gonna red out eventually! The impending…Titian Tsunami, as we like to call it, would make a Zombie invasion in our universe look like a fucking drizzle.

"In the bleak future, Scott, there's going to be two kinds of people: the Redheads…and the Wretched. Blond(e)s and brunet(te)s alike, whether male or female, those two hair colors will be considered Number One and Number Two only in a free associational scatological sense."

At this Kwannon scrunched her face at the Queen/Mikado in a mixture of disgust and incomprehension.

Emma threw her hands up in exasperation at the comely captive. "You know, like, when you go, when you have to go, like how 'Number One' is yellow, and then 'Number Two' is, like…"

The Psylocke co-opter then nodded slowly at this with enlightenment. (She never thought about those hues much, what with her lusty follicles of fuchsia.)

"But once Matsy and I, once we aim our little missile at the Isle of Man, which the estimated epicenter/midpoint of the strongest ginger essences on Earth—and which is deliciously ironic for you zeroes, as the isle's language of "Manx" is an anagram for a given unit on your loser teams—once that nuke goes off, all the Reds will be delightfully DEAD!"

"And we will be right here when it happens, in T-Minus one hour," added the Hand-y gangster alongside the Mikado, "right here, with our Handfire technologies, to collect on said energies that will dissipate from the gingers' deaths—'ginergies,' so to speak, that will power my red-hair-rings—get it?" And then Matsu'o shook the hairs of his would-be-Wolveriney 'do, to show off the bling around his cranium. "I am, with this new energy, am bound to become the HANDARIN!"

"And I, with the lioness's share of the energy—as we agreed," said Emma, sparing a quick glance the cautiously nodding Tsurayaba's way, "will amass enough 'ginergy' to become the next hostess of none other than the PHOENIX ITSELF!"

Through all of this, Kwannon sighed a long, exhausted sigh. Her attention span for idiocy was more than brief, whether it was yet another soul-sucking jag about "JEEEAAAAAN" or this drivel about world domination. Fortunately, there seemed to be a shadow at the end of the tunnel, which the heroine noticed just now after Scott did so many minutes ago.

"Hey, Matsy and Majesty," she said, snarkily as she watched the shadows creep ever closer to her captors, "If someone around here were to…don any kind of clothing, anything at all, right…they would be kicked out of the colony, yeah?"

Emma frowned at Kwan. "I suppose, you violet virago…though my own nakedness is just as much an ironic metaphor 'cover' for my true intentions here as it is for yourOOOOOPPPPP…!"

Matsu'o marked Emma's amorphous ambusher, but could not respond in time as

"AWWWKKKKK!"

…he too was enveloped in the looming darkness that overtook him and the ivory overseer that reigned with him.

"Well, I guess with such a fabric-related infraction...you've just been ejected from the premises," observed Kwannon wryly.

As the lavender-locked lady beheld the black-and-blue-blanketed man who hovered in, known to the heroes of the States as Cloak (and who would be mentioned again in another several paragraphs), she also noticed once more the blacked-out babe known as Darkstar, making her appearance again as she hurried over and undid the quartz corset that covered over the Clops's face. She then went and untied Kwannon as Scott tumbled unceremoniously to the ground.

Summers was swimming in all kinds of emotion at the moment. So many go-betweens amidst so many incredible telepaths…their beauty and their potency was enough to make his head want to explode. Kwannon, of course, read what the man was thinking and she hurried over. As she reached him, the look on Scott's face went from wearied to once again rather aroused as he looked up at the woman's magnificent figure…and eventually into her eyes.

She in turn looked the man up and down, her amethyst eyes darting to and fro and into the man's gaze, then flecking back at his body and then again into his own scarlet spectacles. The two of them had a connection now that was undeniable; sure, it was based primarily in prurience, but it was still a start, and good enough for each, for now. She bent down close to him.

_You and me,_ Scott started, mentally, _we're finishing the little…exchange we started, on the beach when we get out of here. _ (It was not unlike a resolution another, younger Scott made, in a very recent, BattleAtomical conversation to a younger, less-Logan-lusting Jean…but once more, enough about Jean, as Kwanny would say. For once in an X-Men eon, this wasn't her fucking story).

_You bet your pasty white arse we're finishing what we started,_ Kwannon uttered telepathically in return as she bent down abruptly and quickly, ravenously licked his cheek once more. She then stood up again and turned, her long violet ponytail swaying, Scott's package losing all its fragility.

"I hate to have to cut in again, but…"

Kwannon held up a firm hand as Natasha was just strolling up to the pair. "We've got it under control, Widow," she said.

"Maybe you do, at least sort of, as far as your hormones are concerned," said Tasha, "but you both know now that there's something more than just skin deep and sensual, that needs to be unleashed." She then pointed to her partner, and the two Xers nodded in understanding.

First to go was Kwannon: she stood in a far corner of the chamber as Darkstar worked her latent activation abilities, she recently gaining the talent to jumpstart the Darkforce potential in another individual. Taking a deep breath, Laynia extended a hand forward, placing her palm on Kwannon's stomach, directly over the navel six inches long and about an inch wide. Any man, or really anyone, who espied the lady's abdominal anomaly would be rapt in fascination and salacity, as it really was something that was not seen every day—and there was an explanation for it, which would arrive all in good time in this narrative.

As Laynia worked her mutant-based mysticism, she noted swirls of blackness emanating from Kwannon's navel. The subject herself felt her mind expanding, and everything around her felt so much more…manipulable now. "I can read your potential through the Darkforce, Kwan…and I think you are aware of what you can do now, too," Darkstar said. "Why don't you give the new talent you've acquired a try."

Nodding in thanks and understanding, Kwannon turned and thrust a hand out at the limpolka pole to which she was minutes ago bound. The stick shot out of the ground and, with her mental direction, embedded itself in the ceiling, the thing quivering in its new impalement. Behind her, the lady could feel her new man stiffening in kind.

"So it turns out that the 'Force has granted Kwannon with some moderate telekinetic abilities," said Laynia, turning to where Scott lay. As Natasha held the man up, Darkstar looked down, just below Cyke's waist.

"I detect the Darkforce for you, Scott, in a rather…intimate area. You'll have to bear with me."

Laynia then thrust a hand out, directly into Cyclops's Speedo zone. What Scott felt at this juncture was not exactly pleasure—and thank God for that, as Kwannon was watching intently the entire transaction nearby—but rather just an ordinary, plain pressure. (Laynia, parenthetically, was all about men like Scott, but she liked even more the idea of keeping things professional when necessary, such as now).

Then Scott felt nothing at all "down there." It freaked him out, understandably, and he was more than a bit taken aback at this, especially when he noted that there was a gaping black void in the place where his private area once was. As it turned out, then, Yukio's prophecy had indeed come true.

Sensing the hero's panic, Darkstar looked directly into his shades. "It's totally normal, Cyclops…your…equipment is still extant and functional. The void here, it is only a manifestation of the Darkforce. Your talent appears to be that of catching and holding matter within the pelvic void you can create…it's somewhat like the vacuum that Tyrone Johnson can create as Cloak…"

Laynia then turned, to shift her attention from one Johnson to the other, when she noticed that the latter was now beset stressfully by several projectiles of light which shot into him, causing the hero to disgorge the two crooked captives he was holding in the Matsu'o and the Mikado…then causing him to lose consciousness.

"Cloak! NO!"

Instinctively Darkstar shot out a bolt of her 'Force at the one assailing the man, the one who was none other than Dagger, Cloak's closest ally. The resultant black stream energy covered over the other lady, then smothered her too into a temporary oblivion.

Everything then started to speed up considerably. Upon being freed, Matsu'o did not even bother to face the heroes, but rather ran from the chamber, undoubtedly towards the nudist nuke. Kwannon gave chase instantly, with the Widow close behind.

Emma, on the other hand, was intent on staying put, she giving one glance at Darkstar and knocking her out with but a thought. Striking the most suggestive pose possible for the latent titillation of a still-somewhat weakened and dazed Cyclops, the Mikado began to issue orders mentally to her underlings outside.

_Bring in reinforcements, now. If my man Scott Summers will not go willingly with me…I'll take him by force, then watch him die as graphically as possible, by fire and blades._

A few tense seconds with no response.

Then: _Uh, ma'am?_

_Yes?!_

_Most of our people are out at the colony perimeter right now._

_What?!_

_Ma'am, respectably, uh…you gave an order, 'bout twenty minutes ago, for us to contain an uprising, or an…orgy, or something, on the other side of the property…_

Emma was incensed. _I never gave that order! Who ever said I…who instructed you to go to the perimeter?!_

At said perimeter, yet another whitebread mutant maiden beyond Emma and Dagger and Darkstar—another double-D'd D-codename with long blonde hair and sans clothing, sang that crappy ass "Rock Your Body" song by crappy ass Justin Timberlake, as she shot sound-into-light lasers at some incoming Handfires. Riffing on the lyrics: "We're gonna all be naked, by the start of this song!"

Nearby, a sassy Southerner with a signature skunk stripe through her scalp punched a few more heads. "So they all just went along with what y'all ordered, Ali?"

Alison Blaire looked at her partner Rogue—who save for flimsy gloves and small boots was dangerously undressed, and given her limitations basically in the last place on Earth where she should ever be—and she smiled. "For sure! I'm mistaken for Freezy-Freaky Frost, like, fifteen times a day! Doesn't matter if I'm streakin' or rockin' my disco duds!"

It never helped either that certain artists such as the Governor of Bachaloklahoma rendered Emma Frost and Alison Blaire as twinny identical as the effing Stepford Kooks. (So many blondes were blended together under the Machine's jurisdiction; a few All-New issues ago, for example, this author could not understand why Miss Frost was siding with Mystique to buy Madripoor…only to find out that it was Lady Mastermind that the Governor of Immonois was making to look exactly like the Mikado of this story. (Well, in the face and hair, anyway.))

(This author is almost certain, too, that he isn't the only one baffled by the fact that in the Machine's universe, blondes always have more fungibility, in terms of their image.)  
Close to Rogue (as always), one Remy L'Beau battled off Handfires in the buff. The only synthetic things on the man also known as Gambit were the steel staff he wielded menacingly, the tacky shades that made his countenance a shadow of Cyke's in this reality, and the band which tied back his hair and made him look like a vengeful criminal defense attorney. "We gon' continue to fight off more n' more of these 'Fires till the proverbial bo-vines come home, cher'?"

"All's ah know is, we got to buy Slim and Kwanny some time for them to disarm that ol' nuke there, wherever it is 'round this place," replied Rogue, careful to strike out with the abovementioned gloves and boots exclusively, so as not to come into contact with anyone's frivolously flashed flesh. Fortunately, for the most part, the goons the good guys were up against were armored to the teeth, as well as the foot and the hand (the latter again appropriately enough).

When one underling accidentally burned the side of his faceplate in line with another's friendly fire, however, he found that he had to strip the mask from himself. This was precisely at the moment that Gambit charged up and threw a Nudripog, one of the faddish discs traded and played with by colony residents (Remy was out of playing cards)—said pog finding purchase in the posterior of the demaskd soldier, sending him headlong into Rogue's arms.

Before Anna Marie could register the incoming imbecile fully, he had already stumbled into her personal space and spilled in for an involuntary kiss.

"Oh, no…ANNA!"

Rogue roiled in the place she stood for a second, then took a tumble. What kind of sort of made things a bit even worse for her was the fact that some of Dazzler's photons nearby also blasted the clothes off of some more of the enemies (who were both male and female, for the record), and what clinched it for being a bad day for Anna was that a small select elite few of the Handfires conformed to the apparel-less rules of the colony.

When many of the above went down, landing directly atop the denuded form of the skunk-striped superheroine, she found her own unclothed herself party to a pretty heady passel of memories, personalities, and other remnants of enemies who all dropped in.

"Anna? …Anna Marie?"

Gambit's probing was cut off suddenly by Rogue's figure, bursting upward from underneath the pile of foes which almost suffocated her. "Bonan vesperon!" she cried, wishing Gambit "Good evening" in Esperanto (which was the official Handfire language, seeing as the Clan was a combination of East and West).

"Aww, gimme a break, cher'." The pair of Southern lovers could just never catch a break with all the barriers that always came up between them.

(At least Gambit was off the hook at the moment for being the most incomprehensible hero).

Rogue then settled into a Handfire battle stance which neither Remy nor anyone outside of the Clan could possibly recognize. Whisking up a flaming kunai shooter from the ground, she shucked off her gloves and locked and loaded.

One perk of her absorption of the bodily essences of others, at least in this reality, was that she also absorbed their handprints as well. Because of this, the flaming kunai guns, "smart" weapons only responsive to said handprints of the enemy, readily complied with Rogue's use. Additionally, Anna gained through touch of the Clan just now the markspersonship at the level of her adoptive mother Raven basically, so that she hit her targets from afar with much greater ease now, she blasting away with flames and kunai quite readily.

"Damn, my lady," said Remy, as he pogged out another foe, "you all Bullseye Robin Hood with your shootin'…I's about to mistake you for Mystique!"

It was just then that Rogue ran out of ammo on her gun, and more of the enemy was converging. "Sluingushote Espeshial!" she supposedly cried in Esperanto, as she reached behind herself, without looking, for Gambit's stick to perform their own variation of the Wolverine/Colossus "Fastball Special," in which Rogue would grab Remy's staff and then use her superhuman strength to fling him at the enemy, giving him aerial vantage from which to hurl his projectiles more advantageously from above. (Of course, this author had trouble finding "Slingshot Special" in Esperanto online, so he kind of pulled the translation out of his wazoo…completely unlike the other 99.999 percent of this story).

In the heat of the instant, however, Rogue found too late that the shaft which she grabbed hold of was not one of steel, but rather something a bit more organic and personal to Mister L'Beau (not to mention to herself). And the "Special" in question turned out not to be a "Slingshot" one, but kind of more of a "Hardball" one in the end.

"AYHHHNAAAAAHHHHH!" the crotch-copped Cajun screamed as he sailed over Rogue's head, he rubbing said wrenched shaft with one hand while he did all he could to aim and throw with his other.

"Fiking fekajo!" Anna Marie cried in her frustration. (This author will leave it to the reader to look up or surmise in context what that phrase meant).

Nearby, Agents Jones and Coulson were firing steadily at a number of Handfires converging in. In the course of the next several minutes, the two managed to score several with their SHIELD-issued weapons. When they too ran out of ammunition, Gabe called in for backup with his signature horn, while Phil played his role by getting fucking stabbed again, as he did in another, cinematic reality, but this time by a bayonet on the front of one Clan soldier's weapon (said bayonets fitted especially in keeping with the whole Nudripoor theme, of course, because the weapon wouldn't otherwise quite measure up to other "guns" around).

"PHIL! Shit!"

Officer Jones (who happened to be packing one such "gun" whose prominence defied that of even a bayonet-fitted Clan weapon) rushed over to Coulson's side, tending to the other man's seemingly fatal wound.

"Damn it, man!" shouted Gabe as he looked around for anything, any fabric at all that could dress the wound on Coulson's denuded chest…but of course, for the umpteenth trillionth time, this was Nudripoor. "I…I don't know what I can do…I don't know if you're gonna make it…"

"Get the hell out of here," Phil returned, laughing. "This ain't nothin'."

Officer Jones looked at his compatriot slack-jawed.

"I get gored by gods, goons, and goofballs all the time…don't worry, I'll make it to the pilot on ABC in a couple of weeks."

Gabriel Jones shook his head, found another weapon, and continued fighting. In the meantime Agent Coulson, who was apparently the Monty Python Black Knight of the Machine, just proceeded to recline on the ground and relax, the apparent indestructibility and immortality of the man making Wolverine look like worm-eaten wood and Phoenix look like a fruit fly in contrast.

Also within range of the melee was once again Dazzler, in addition to Daisy Dugan and the always-irrepressible Sa…er, Nakedtooth. Ali was looking damn good with all those special sound-originated effects shining around her bared body…but Daisy, as she was dubbed before, was at least smelling damn, DAMN good, especially to one Tooth in the nude as far as he could tell. (Once more, as stated before, thanks to a very wicked Storm, Victor Creed was sightless for the past few weeks at least).

But it was something in the way Daisy moved, her somewhat muscular, yet also somewhat voluptuous rosy form wrecking through the enemy with strength and grace, that made for a redolent scent that invaded Creed's sinuses quite thoroughly. This as well as the battle all around set him off to such a degree that it fired his adrenalin, as well as other…more explicit hormones at the same time, which in turn sent his healing factor into the stratosphere.

It was then at that moment that Victor could visualize the streaking scrum around him with newly restored eyesight, as well as with all his other senses. "DAISY, my little miracle worker," he exclaimed before even turning to the woman and beholding her in her glory, "I think you might have brought me back to…"

And then, amidst a field filled with Clan corpses, the two found each other's eyes. One look at Dugan's irises made the regularly randy Tooth not even need or wish to look at the rest of her.

All the Clanners at the perimeter were finally down. It was time to kick back a bit and celebrate the spoils.

Looking upon the couple and almost shedding a tear at their electric connection, Alison Blaire broke into an ad hoc rendition of "Hungry Eyes" as Nakedtooth and Damn, DAMN clasped each other for an impromptu waltz. (See, you were probably mad because Jean and douchebag Wolverine weren't headlined in this story. At least you got a redhead and a savage coming together here…and they're even waltzing, to boot, like that title of that awful Forever annual).

(And on Ali's part, "Eyes" might not have been the best number to do, but 1) she was improvising, 2) it was appropriate for the whole restored eyesight thing—though on second thought "Eyesight to the Blind" from The Who's _Tommy_ might have been better, and 3) it still beats her doing friggin' "Proud Mary" right before Inferno way back when, because God knows that's the go-to song to make a crowd jump, or so believes the Governor of Claremontana.)

Back inside the limpolka-poled confrontation chamber, a mind-muffed Darkstar stayed down and out while a woozy Cyclops found himself set upon (once more) by the White Mikado.

She wasn't going to beat around the bush anymore. Emma rushed over and grabbed at the Clops, just as he was seemingly readying to upright himself. With maddened, widened eyes the lady laid into him fully with a full frontal barrage of breastitude.

"I'm not letting anyone else become Mrs. Summers, Scotty," she said in her frightening fervor, beginning to press down upon Cyke's face with both considerable occupants of her chest. "You know—you must know my full ulterior motive for this whole plot. I won't allow any more Jeans or Madelynes or Phoenixeses-…Phoenices?!—what the fuck ever, to come between us. No more miserable gingers; you're going to be my White Daimyo, God damn it!"

Scott found himself smothered fully by the woman's generous gland-casings, they enveloping his face entirely.

Ordinarily the hero could and would struggle against an enemy trying to strangle him as such by fighting back for as long as ten or fifteen minutes if he had to.

He lasted about five seconds here.

Emma relented a minute later anyway, leaning back just far enough to slap off Cyke's glasses with one hand and then thrust the other out just as the man's eyes flashed lethally red. In an instant the regent pulled whatever hypnosis hocus-pocus she did during the Astonishing Governor of Wheedington period to hold back Scott's optical emissions.

For the first time since he was a child, Scott could now see the world all around him in full color. (In this reality, at least, his perceptions were all in shades of red, whether by visor or bifocally). It was kind of tough to take a gander at all the colors available on the scene, what with an enormous pair of breasts immediately obscuring seventy percent of his field of vision, the boobs' owner insane to boot and intent on destroying him and a fair percentage of the world if he did not join her. "I'm offering you one…last…time…Summers."

She then thrust what she was packing straight at his face once more.

(You know, from some people's perspective, this wasn't exactly a crisis for the man, if one thought about it).

But then Frost found herself

"EGGGHHHHH!"

being abruptly shunted down into the newly developing void between the legs of a man who was the most prudish of prunes to Kwannon's passionate plum.

"I'm not as easy as you think, The White Mikado!"

She was only in up to her waist, but Frost was immobilized by the man's pelvic vortex. The lady flashed a maddened grin at this, actually feeling somewhat triumphant at kind of getting what she wanted from the man anyway—though she wasn't exactly expecting to be the one to penetrate him.

Then, once more, a number of things happened at once.

[ZARRRKKKKK]

Because Emma's hold on Scott wasn't as strong due to her immobilization and…distraction at her situation, her hypnosis over Cyke had ceased, causing the man to belt out optically once more. He shot his gaze to the side instinctively so as not to strike Emma, as despite his resistance there was something remotely brimming within him that did not wish to harm so fine a figure.

Unfortunately for Emms, not everyone who had been or was just suddenly present had shared such a sentiment.

A new sort of energy signature whooshed on in as

[CALASSSSSHHHHHHHHHH] "AAAAAGGGHHHHH!"

the Mikado suddenly found herself raised into the air by what must have been some sort of magnetic field. Scott rummaged around the floor to find his glasses, cursing a bit to be condemned to permanent redness once more…

…but then found his frustration to be abated somewhat by the appearance of his brother Alex, and Lorna Dane as well, both as birthday-clad as he and the latter the one levitating Emma aloft. "How?..." the Clops wondered aloud.

"Miss Frost has been around for quite a while," explained Polaris as she manipulated the Mikado through the air. "I just…correctly guessed that she was around during the time of the first implants, and that she took advantage of them fully…it seems that, judging by my ability to move her, she really did avail herself of the opportunities!"

(In this reality, before there was silicone, plastic surgeons just resorted to silicon, which unlike its similarly-sounding substance was a METAL (or at least a metalloid)).

"Now, White Mikado, you're REALLY gonna go 'au naturel'!"

And with this exclamation, Polaris waved her hands around…then pulled them to herself abruptly. What happened next was probably the most traumatic instant in X-Mythos since an eerily similar time, during a period of Fatal Attractions, when Dane's father Magneto ejected all the adamantium from the body of one hapless Howlett—here, making for an even more ghastly sight, Polaris did the same with Miss Frost's silicon, silvery shards erupting from the lady and shivering to the ground in scary little slivers.

To allay the reader's shock, this transaction, unlike the one with Logan and Lehnsherr (this author knows it's like "Eisenhardt" now, but he needed the alliteration—Maggy probably has more alter egos than Wolvy now, if it could be imagined), this moment was not bloodletting at all, as Lorna was precise enough not to shed a single drop of blood in her careful spontaneous surgery of Emma's constitution. Speaking of shock, though, it was all still enough to knock the Mikado out for a spell, and even Lorna was freaked out enough by the whole thing to cast the lady away, throwing her through the roof of the chamber by way of the iron in Frost's blood to get the enemy away from her.

"Damn, Lor," said Alex as he watched his lover work her magic all these minutes, "I never took you to be so…sadistic."

"Trust me, Alex…the pear doesn't fall far from the tree, as far as my daddy is concerned."

The two looked into each other's eyes…then Alex broke peeper-to-peeper contact to glance…elsewhere on the sensuous north star that was Polaris.

The woman allowed herself a bit of an evil grin in return, then acted on an impulse, which will be revealed in retrospect in the coming chapter.

A few minutes later, Alex would channel so much of his own energy into his brother's nether region. "This is the reason why I'm here specifically, Scotty…when the Xers gained wind of your…Darkforce potential, after Laynia let the 411 fly, everyone figured I'd act as a good battery for you. So here's a plasma donation!"

Cyclops lay back as a stream of yellow substance actually flowed into his crotch and brought him relief for once, instead of the other way around as it usually was for him and every other human being.

Outside, Matsu'o almost made it to the scaffolding upon which was the missile launch panel—this structure located just feet away the nudist nuclear weapon itself—when a vengeful Kwannon overtook him, her unclothed form leaping atop his own denuded back.

Atop the "man"'s shoulders she made for his neck in a desperate attempt to snap it, but then

(FSHAAAHHHHH)

radiating whitish energy from one of the man's hair-rings blew her off of him and to the ground.

"My Ambush Conditioner Ring," the gangster crowed to Kwannon, as he turned to face her. "Just one of the many abilities I am given by my lush head of formidable follicles."

"When I'm done with you," gritted Kwannon, from her place on the floor, "you won't have a head on which to place such rings."

Matsu'o opened his mouth to respond, but found himself suddenly beset by an electric projectile charge from the side. He dodged it instinctively with superhuman speed, using his Spaceshifting Shampoo Ring, then blasted at the attacking Widow with his Geyser Gel Ring, a steamy, douchebaggy force flooding out of his head and deluging Natasha harshly, knocking her out cold against the bottom of the scaffold.

He then sensed Kwannon coming at him once more, and he mentally charged up another ring adorning his deadly, omnidirectional mullet. Before Matsy could dispense more hair care castigation, though, the lady swept his feet and brought him to the ground.

"Now I'm going to repay you, in full," she cried, finally unsheathing her psychic knife once more as she knelt triumphantly atop him…then a second later found herself abruptly underneath, places switched with him and she now looking directly up into his maniacal countenance.

"You will never dominate me as long as I wield my Positionswitching Paste Ring," spat Matsu'o, the man looming frighteningly above and fixing a cold, hard glare on Kwannon.

"And now," he continued, mentally charging up one more bit of bling in his dreadful 'do, "I am going to utilize my Consummation Cream Ring to…seal the deal on the reestablishment of our relationship."

He loomed ever closer, one knee on each of the lady's wrists such that she could not bring her psychic cutlery up, his ass firmly planted on her smooth, desirable, Darkforcey stomach. From the corner of her eye Kwannon could note the monster's manhoo…er, boyhood distending slightly towards the direction of her unprotected, intimate area…

[SHHHHHSNNNIPPP]

"AAAIIIIIRRRGGGHHHHHH!"

And then, just as in the climax of _The Miserable Masturbatory Mutant Feature of 2013_, the threatening villain was cut short in his menace, cut from behind by an untoward adamantium claw. The blade did not enter _into_ Matsu'o's head so much, as it did in that piece of corrupt celluloid (especially because this author is not really into such cranial violence), but rather the claw whished through Matsy's hair and snipped off the lock containing the aforementioned Cream Ring, the article falling to the floor alongside the asshole.

But consistent with that failure of a film, the one who wielded the claw was none other than the eponymous and the more prominent of the two Super Mariko Sisters.

"Let her go, Mats!" Mariko cried, as another Wolverine claw materialized in her arm. Unbeknownst to, and unfortunately for the gangster and other hapless bad guys, the cloying claw of James Howlett lived on not only in Kitty Pryde's forearm, but also in the forearm of every woman whose life he touched—thus making for a veritable friggin' solar system of seductresses with said claws in their arms. Yukio, of course, was along for the ride now as well, and she too unsheathed a copy of said claw, hurling it and severing the lock containing man's Paste Ring from his head a second later.

The Sisters then proceeded to continue to throw Wolverclaws at Matsu'o's various hairs like vacationers throwing darts at balloons on a beachside pier, the blades snipping off the Gel and the Shampoo and the Conditioner rings along with so many others.

So distracted by the rape of so many locks, Matsu'o ceased his focus on the rape of the 'Locke of whom Kwannon was once a part. The latter took full advantage of this, channeling the TK energy in her abdomen to wrest the man off of her completely, tossing him effortlessly aside now that the threat of his baneful boyhood in her face was thankfully banished. She set upon him once more, and, without hesitating this time, whipped out her psychic blade and drew it down the middle of the man's naked front torso. "NEKUYROHS!" she screamed as she did this, the cry a reversing of the Japanese rendition of Street Fighter Ryu's Dragon Punch because said strike proceeded upward, while Kwannon was cutting downward. The considerable fissure that was left upon Matsu'o's torso, however, was not unlike the chasmlike scar upon Sagat's own body.

"That's for the Soaplands," she hissed into the man's ear as she then kneed him in the face, knocking him out, as with above the explanation of said Soaplands misadventure to be explained in the very near future (in another chapter).

"Are you alright, Kwannon?" asked Mariko from meters away.

The amethyst adventuress nodded. "I actually feel a hell of a lot better, having gotten a terrible weight off my chest in more ways than one."

"Well, I don't feel so wonderful," said Yukio, she looking around frantically. "I need to check up on the Summery subject of my precious prediction! The growth of the gaijin's groin void is of utmost urgency to the continued welfare of Nudripoor, Madripoor, and Japa…OHH…"

And then the Yukester passed out completely as she witnessed the incoming of the Clops from the chamber, the man's nether area becoming a more noticeable null set by the second as the blackened area pulsated prominently. Mariko tried to hold the girl up to no avail as her unconscious form willowed in her grasp.

"We need to get to the launch panel!" Scott screamed as he loped as much as he could (that which was between his legs preventing him from running at full speed) towards the scaffolding. Behind him, Alex and Lorna were charging in as well, while Cloak and Darkstar were still chilling out inside in unconsciousness.

"Scott…LOOK!" Polaris shouted, catching sight of a wearied yet determinedly-crawling White Mikado as she inched ever so obsessively towards the nuke controls.

Cyke thought to rush as fast as his void would allow him to the scaffolding ladder, but Kwannon already had him covered. "NNNGGGHHH!" she cried, flexing her stomach muscles to levitate the man with her newfound telekinesis. As she was pretty new at the skill, though, Kwan succeeded only in getting him to the far edge of the platform, still feet away from the panel just as Emma got her milky mitts on them.

Lorna gestured towards the controls, trying to manipulate them with her magnetism; unfortunately for her, the panel was made entirely of a plastic compound ordinarily used for adult toys that were designed for intimate situations. The material in fact felt so familiar and welcoming to Miss Frost as she yanked the hard lever that set the missile into motion.

The Darkforce accelerating Kwannon's telepathic talents as well, she immediately programmed a plan into the minds of the heroes. Havok fired his plasma at the railing of the platform, allowing Scott to lope and launch himself freely off of it; Alex then fired supplemental plasma blasts to widen Cyclops's nether vacuum all the more. Next Cyke, in midair, spread-eagled directly into the path of the blasting-off nuke, Lorna using her abilities to guide the metallic missile squarely into the hero's void.

In the ensuing seconds, Scott worked his own personal Darkforce magic upon the powerful projectile, the man squeezing his fists tightly and his face contorting viciously while Kwannon held him in midair. Through his efforts, Scott canceled the missile's coordinates to reach the Isle of Man, reprogramming with a Darkforce-fueled mental command to make the projectile instead chart course for a very specific area in outer space.

Finally, Kwannon flexed her abs one more time, her telekinesis turning the man in midair. Scott cast both of his arms back in one potent pelvic thrust as he disgorged the nuke, sending it screaming into outer space…

…but not before the Mikado, watching all of this with prurient fascination and horrification, gathered all her strength and…

(SLOW MOTION "NOOOOOOOOOO")

…launched herself off the platform, she diving for Scott's crotch as she would in any reality, she latching and hanging onto the missile just as it started to depart from the man's nether void, just as it began its journey into the ethereal yonder.

_Ssstay Fffrosty… Ssscott,_ was her one parting mental command as the White Mikado rode the man's void-reprogrammed rocket up and out of sight.

Out in space—on a particular Asteroid destined in another reality's future to become a Utopic paradise for mutants, one Max Erik Magnus Lehnsherr Eisenhardt Howlett was being threatened, menaced by an overbearing ginger, a vaporous one named Voght whose presence was anything but…ameliorative. Alongside her, the fucking cootie known as Fabian Cortez also lurked, a mean male redhead for once, and no less a threat to humanity.

Magneto struggled against vapory bonds that held him fast as the aforementioned Amelia came ever closer, the gases surrounding her becoming more and more lethal by the second.

"In the future," she crooned insanely, "there will be two kinds of people…the Redheads…and the Wretched. Blond(e)s and brunet(te)s will only be One and Two in a human-sanitary sense…"

Magnus strained and struggled here, to absolutely no avail.

But then…

"WAAAHHHHHHOOOOOOO!... WAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHOOOOOOO!"

The asswipe and his former Acolytes looked aside to see the most peculiar spectacle one Miss Mikado Frost, she riding the missile manically and quite Strangelove-ily—the stronghold of Maggy its deadset destination.

"Oh, fuck me with a defective catheter," cried Amelia the former nurse, now—and only for a second more—nefarious mistressmind of the ginger uprising. Fabian for his part, could only cringe.

"WAAAHHHHHH…"

[SHHHHHBLAAARPPPPP]

(As there was no sound in the vacuum of space, this was the closest approximation one could make for a nuclear explosion out in that frontier).

END OF PART TWO OF THREE; TO BE CONCLUDED


	3. Chapter 3: The Emissions

NUKE-NUDES FOREVER: THE PENULTIMATE POLKA

By Quillon42

PART THREE OF THREE

Back in Madripoor, Nudripoor, what have you, the clothing-challenged champions took to cleaning up the mess left by all the melees that transpired in the last hour or so. Inside the limpolka pole chamber, Cloak, Dagger, and Darkstar thankfully came to, and outside Black Widow, Yukio, and unfortunately Matsu'o came back into unconsciousness. Mariko made sure, however, that this last would be behind vibranium bars—and that the gangster would not have access to hara-kiri or hair products of any kind.

Over the next several minutes, everyone talked and sorted out their missions and motivations. Most whimsical had been Dagger's assault against her partner; she explained that she was under White Mikado mind control, as Miss Bowen was hypnotically coerced into serving Frost after the latter offered her silicon augmentation similar to the former Queen's own. (Dagger had felt bodily incomplete for a long time, largely due to the heavy drug use that she and her partner had fallen victim to earlier in life).

Her love Tyrone, however—a man with his own share of insecurities, for sure—he reaffirmed the petite blonde's power and magnificence, and they kissed and made up in no time. Natasha in particular also took an intrigued likening to Dagger, as for one, she seemed to be an "Opposites Day" version of the shadowy blonde that was Darkstar, and secondly, the Widow was fascinated by the Ohioan heroine's first name.

"You are named after most advanced computer of all time in human civilization?" she asked. (Hey, give Tasha a break, whether it was 1992 as here, or friggin' 2013; again, she was from Russia.)

Now Scott was back in the bungalow that he and Kwannon shared at the colony, he relaxing on the bed, once more only in Speedo, while his partner was out for a swim. The mutant leader had just finished a report on the mission they had ventured through so bizarrely yet so effectively, and he was otherwise convalescing from the expansion in his nether regions from the previous evening.

What was pleasanter than any physical recovery on his part right now was the fact that he may well have found something to replace the constant crimson cardiac arrest that was his old lover. For the first time since like his fucking Sweet Sixteen, the J Word and the G Word were honestly the furthest things from his mind. He went in his mind from one end of the proverbial Roy G Biv to the other as his thoughts turned fully to the lovely, dead sexy woman with whom he came to Madripoor.

Scott thought, dreamed, almost diurnally emitted as he lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, musing at the memory of Kwannon so many months ago. It was the start of that Omega Red mission. It was an emergency, but she ran onto the scene with a still-fleshed-out Peter Rasputin, Kwannon herself even more fleshed out in that skimpy cinnamon bikini, just as she did at the Mansion during the Fury communication, before this Nudripoor job now, the lady those times clad in so little and soaking wet all over to boot. Even at those moments of crisis, he wanted to lick the chlorinated water off her entirely rather than, for example get her the jacket she put on a second later during the Omega instance.

He turned it all over some more in his mind as he continued to look upward. _What was it that she said that first time, about the alarm going off…and she had been doing…_

"I was doing laps in the pool…"

_ Yes, that was it…but…oh my…_

Scott's attention shifted to the door, where stood now the very woman he was thinking of, the telepath fulfilling his very daydream as she blocked the exit, her skin once more saturated and gleaming with poolwater, she again clad only in that same tiny bikini.

"…and that bloody klaxon almost shot me right out of the water!"

Kwannon barely had time to break into a smile as the scantily-Speedoed Scott sprang off the bed and tackled the woman to the floor. Her smile spread ever wider as the man started by kissing her neck profusely, then her sharp jawline, then her full, rose-blossom lips. As their tongues lapped themselves into a lampolka of their own, Scott's hands worked at the back of the lady's swimsuit bra, and upon his failing to unlatch it, she telekinetically disencumbered her mountainous breasts of the bit of fabric, she of course again rubbing her naked sweaty stomach against his own in her exertion of Darkforce-based psychic energy. Scott's lips then worked his way down to her chest, then to each of her capaciously-areolaed ample bosoms. All the while, Kwan ran her fingers through Scott's hair, glided her slinky hands down the tops of his shoulders as he continued his descent down her flawless figure.

Summers fulfilled his past fantasy's desire as he next proceeded to lick every molecule of chlorination off the lady's smooth stomach. When he reached her voluminous navel, he continued to run his tongue, and he also grabbed for a forty which he bought an hour ago, Kwannon knowing full well what the man intended to do with it, but forgetting to address the matter with Scott till now.

"WAIT!"

Cyke stopped in midlick just as he was about to pop the top off the bottle. He moved the woman's dainty, tensed hand carefully away from his face. "Kwann…?"

"I know you were about to do…body shots off of me…and goodness knows you could go through an entire forty in one go, with as long and deep as my belly-button is. …There's a story behind that."

A randy glance from Cyclops signified to Kwannon that perhaps she should cut to the chase on the tale. "Matsu'o and I…when we were going together…we went to a Soaplands resort in Japan. He thought it would be fun to play hibachi on my abs—like the more modern version of hibachi—and he tried to do one of those onion volcano things on my navel, and it…got out of hand!"

Kwannon's body shook at this revelation. So that was why the groove in the center of her stomach was so long and deep, with gashy markings, the navel appearing like the concave fossil of some ancient, giant silverfish. "It's the real reason why I've been itching to go after him all these years…I had to pay Matsy back for…scarring me so.

"I hate it; I've always hated it. It's so…ugly…"

"Kwannon," said Scott, staring at the woman's stomach and shaking his head, his voice firm and his body ever firmer, "I've seen a lot in my life…and I've been with some of the most beautiful women in the world.

"And I've honestly got to say that, maybe what happened was an accident, but…your navel is the sexiest, most erotic accident—the most erotic sight I have ever beheld, in all of my decades."

She responded by flexing her abs once more, the resulting telekinetic reaction shunting Scott up to her face again, the lady kissing the living shit out of him, he kissing back even more readily, the two wrestling tongues with the youthful vigor that schoolchildren at lunch would wrestle thumbs-but with so much tension-quenching passion besides. In the midst of this makeout, Scott reached down and grabbed the heavenly spheres of Kwannon's ass again, as he did on that beach just before the Handfires fell upon them. She in turn grasped at his own, pasty white buttocks.

"My lips are so jealous of my fingers at the moment," he said, huskily.

"They shouldn't be…my arse has been dying to meet your mouth for quite a while now."

With that, Scott descended once more, smothering Kwannon's ample breasts with his lips once more, kissing the soft auric belly and licking again the veritable canal that was her navel, lowering the slightest of bikini panties down her legs with his teeth, maneuvering them down the long lengths of her thighs and onto his head a second.

"Kwann…I am determined to wear this little red pair here on my head, for longer than any other pair of red anything I've ever worn…" He lightly grasped his shades with his free hand to drive the point home, as if she couldn't get it already.

"Alright, alright…saw what you did there…just go on, for God's sake, yeah?" She shot him her wickedly sly grin at him again.

Scott was more than ready and happy to comply, he rising up again and kissing the insides of her golden thighs…then he made for her own, very intimate counterpart to the area of his body which helped win the war against Matsu'o and the Mikado.

After spending quite a fair spell there, Kwannon as pleased as superhumanly possible, Scott finally made his way around and roamed the silken scape of Kwannon's hindquarters for the first and very protracted time. Kwannon, in kind, put the "ass" in "masseuse" as her fingers played a slow, smooth symphony of a massage on his own rear.

Kwannon then had more of a turn at Scott, she navigating the man's wide, hirsute powerful chest, then the twenty-four pack of abs that he sported. By the time she reached where his miniscule swim trunks should have been, said area was once more supplanted by that yawning void once more. Undaunted, Kwannon went full speed ahead into Speedolessland, an interesting gender inversion as she entered the man through the front of his intimate area as no other woman had done before, and given the depths of Scott's, er…void, it was a segue to the world's first 69,000 basically.

Scott thought, in fact, to reach for the scuba flippers a few feet away (as the pair was planning to go diving a bit later), and ask Kwan if she would need them right now, but then he thought better of it, preferring to go the route of tactful gallantry over tacky humor.

In the end, Cyke decided, what he had now was better, wilder than anything he'd experienced before, at least with the possible (probable) exception of Madelyne. Now, in the Nineties, this insane experience reigned supreme. Indeed, compared to Kwannon's wilderness plum pudding, what Jean could offer was just cafeteria applesauce.

(To be fair, Scott himself was Grampa's granola compared to the more wild oats that was Wolverine. Just to balance matters a tad.)

But the more-than-visible voids of the heroes here were indeed to be celebrated. In the vein of seventeenth-century English Cavalier Poet Robert Herrick, who wrote verses sometimes celebrating the clothing effects or bodily boons of certain women, this author too would like to take a moment to laud in verse the voids of both Kwannon and Scott alike. First the former:

UPON KWANNON'S NAVEL

By "Kwillon"42

My lovely lady Kwannon, I

Shall henceforth in your navel lie

And dress in Darkforce'd blanket dear

And slumber for a thousand years.

Now the latter, imagining a hypothetical in which his own particular void becomes so famous that people from all over the world flock to witness it, and maybe even contribute keepsakes, or anything at all, to it out of…respect? Or maybe awe:

UPON SCOTT'S NETHER VOID

By Quillon42

My much-esteemed X-leader, yo

I approach your crotch with trash in tow

while minding (ad)mirers from Seoul to Tashkent

as I dump my aging Hyundai Accent.

Such did the hollows of these hallowed heroes command one's attention and appreciation.

Meanwhile, in a small complex underground in Macao…another insidious anti-ginger faction, a violent terrorist cell in fact, awaited the incoming of its own weaponry to launch against the crimson world threats. Paramedic Lian Shen, having fallen off the face of the Earth most plotholedly during the Muir Island Saga way back when, mysteriously resurfaced months later, her object to ally with others who would seek the downfall of all redheads male and female.

Shen, who was beautiful, powerful, and very sexy—yet overlooked by members of the Machine possibly because they were too distracted by other Asian sensations such as Jubilee and the overly- abovementioned Kwannon—Shen was also steaming generally for such oversight on the part of her makers. With her new allies, she would be sure to strike out beyond the fourth wall once she succeeded on the front of immediate threats.

But what were those allies…what were those two doing right now?

Lian had heard that this powerful pair, this…Fenris, was comprised of a twin brother and sister from Germany, the Strucker twins, who were a bit too close for comfort. Intimations of incest indeed arose regarding them, and the Chinese doctor took this well into consideration when joining them. She had her suspicions of their closeness all the while, especially given the rumors…

While walking the cramped halls of her complex one evening, she was minding her business when she heard in fact an oomph oomph oomphing coming from a nearby closet.

Paramedic Shen went ahead and opened the doors wide, not knowing what to expect…

…and not being disappointed at all when she caught Andreas in Speedo and sandals, with Andrea in swimsuit and heels, the two bonding in a way that was a bit more personal than that which siblings would ordinarily pursue.

Before Lian could close the closet door in disgust: "Come…come join…join our New Axis…be the Asian counterpart to our German front," purred Andrea, placing a hand on the other girl's shoulder.

"But I'm from China," said Lian, trying to shrug the hand off.

"Chinese, Japanese, what's the difference," said Andreas, the ignorant idiot supremacist that he was in general.

Lian adjusted her glasses, thinking about it a second, thinking about what was more pleasurable between detonating a missile in time, and diving into a ménage immediately.

_What the hell…if I choose the closet cuddle, and the missile thing never happens, then I guess I'll sort of be saving the world, in a way._

Shen jumped in to join the other two, then shut the door.

They never came out, and thus the world was indeed once again saved.

Back at the mansion, about a week and a half or so later, Scott reclined in an easy chair with the most colitis-consuming grin upon his countenance. He really needed that jaunt across the globe, to get away from so much. And he and his new violet vesper were going to traipse out there again—just the two of them—this time next year to be certain.

Really, so many people benefited from the trip. People hooked up left and right, as Gabe Jones got with the Widow, Coulson was being tended to most intimately by Laynia, and Ms. Dugan and Mr. Tooth came together most mellifluously, to the sound of Ali Blaire's ballads.

One of the most hair-and-other-bodily-items-raising moments was that one instant between Alex and Lorna, right after the latter sucked the silicon out of the Mikado's skinny pounds of flesh with such bloodless precision that one might think in that instance more about Shylock and his proposed punishment in Shakspeare, rather than Psylocke's purply counterpart in Nudripoor. Shortly after that shocking transaction, the younger Summers brother looked upon Lorna most lustily…

…and she, noticing her man's…engorgement, decided to have a little more fun with his junk than he ever could have by himself. Before he knew it, Alex found his own un-voided package looking directly up at him, more ramrod straight than it had ever been for so, so long.

"LORNA!"

"Havok's-got-a-harrrd-on, Havok's-got-a-harrrd-on…"

With her magnificent magnetic abilities, the mistress manipulated the blood with which her love's intimacy stick was presently saturated. (As was somewhat demonstrated in the second X-Men film of this millennium, does have its fair share of iron in it…)

"Havok's-got-a-harrrd-on…"

"DAMNIT!..."

"Wait'll I show Natasha! She won't have to play on her 'new' Atari console anymore…"

Ahh, good, good times.

Scott was readying himself just now to go meet his new love—or at least lust—at the door to the crazy Xavier house.

Directly in his way was none other than the woman for whom he had pined for so long, the woman who until very recently he "would do anything for," as a shunted Sixties counterpart of his would crow in a currently-ongoing BattleAtomic miniseries.

"Well…Scott…fancy seeing you here."

"Jean…"

She walked up to him and held a palm against his cheek. "I heard about what went on in Madripoor."

Scott looked down a second, not knowing whether he should feel ashamed.

Then he looked up again, knowing full well that he damn shouldn't.

But Jean wasn't going to go that route anyway. No, she was going to do something almost as unwelcome.

"Look at you…a leader now, in every sense of the word.

"I mean, look at you. LOOK AT YOU! You're so CYOOT!"

And then Miss Grey took it upon herself to grasp and pinch the cheeks of her erstwhile first love.

"LOOK at you! You're ALL GWOWN UP! You're a GOOD widdle weader! YES YOU ARE! MMMYES YOU ARE!"

Scott gently eased Jean's fingers off his cheeks. "Jean, I know why you're here."

She calmed and paused a second. "Yes, Scott, I'm sure you've heard. I've been…kind of lonely, as of late. All the men in my life, they're gone now. With everyone dropping like veritable flies…

"I'm all alone here."

Now where the fuck have we heard _that_ line before…and how true was it _there_ also.

Scott looked at his former woman with a steady gaze. "Jean…I understand that you may feel a bit lonesome. …But it isn't as if you haven't had your go-rounds."

"Scott…"

"No. I've heard from Natasha about your resignation from the CTCFC. And I know about you, and the whole Grey Bereaved thing…just the initials you have on your X-Wardrobe now—the GBG—it gives me the heebie-jeebies.

"I know about Logan. And Hank.

"And Peter. And Pietro. And 'Professor Chuckles,' as you called him of late. And Colonel Nick. And Hal. And Wally. And Kal-El. And Kitty. And Kurt. And Lockheed. And Latka. And Yorick."

Yes, even the hero of the finite series beginning with the next letter of the alphabet after this franchise's infamous "X"—the hero who was the veritable "Last Man" in his reality—had succumbed to the ex-Marvel Girl's machinations.

"Anyhow," Scott continued, starting to unbutton the flannel shirt he had on, "I'm not sticking around to become your next wonder of the week—then pass on, with no hope of coming back—unlike your own schtick."

"Scott, no…" protested the Grey girl, "you, you were my first love…"

"And now I can have the privilege of being your three-hundred thirty-first. I'm sorry, Jean, but, as I heard that you told Logan on that island on the Caribbean a while back…

"This is _my_ choice."

She was a trifle bit more than steamed now. "You JERK!" she cried, as Scott did that for which he was, as was catchphrasily attributed to the most overrated uberhero of all time, "the best at what he did."

Throwing away perfectly wonderful redhead relationships. (Although to be fair, here Jean was not as admirable as she was in 616…just as, to be fair, Scott has not been so admirable _in_ 616 ever since like 2001, at the start of the Morrisotan reign of terror—the theme of this author's hindsightedly sabretooth-grinding "Quesadilla" story.)

As Scott huffed off to the front door, Jean: "You know about Logan and Hank and the Prof…well, _I_ know about Kwannon! And Natasha! And Yukio! And Daisy Damn Damn! And Trumpeting Gabe! And…"

Cyke cut her off by turning around sharply. He pointed a stern finger at her.

"You know…I fought Nanny for you. Fuckin' _Nanny._

"Just think on that a moment."

And then the X-Hefner walked out the Mansion's front door, to so many freedoms, leaving the X-Henner to the diversions that had already carried her through so many Forever issues as it was.

And to recap at this juncture, in the course of this grand, esteemed narrative did we learn that the epitome of erogenous, organic fissures/voids in the Machine's universe belonged to Scott and Kwannon, respectively; that Gingers in any reality definitively need to be stopped, if not eradicated, in order to preserve the existence of all other life on the planet; and, as the takeaway of absolute paramount importance, that _Hunger Games_ is a ripoff most immediately and egregiously of _Bio F.R.E.A.K.S. _

Outside the lair of professorial leashes, the magnificent kunoichi greeting Scott near to a violet convertible: "Ready, Mister Shadypackage?"

Scott looked to his new lavender lover lovingly. "Ready, Miss Silverfish."

Indeed, Slim Shadypackage and his love Kwannon Silverfish—his own veritable exotic counterpart to the abovementioned overrated uberhero's Kayla Silverfox, in name and in all else—the pair of prurient lusters shared a hug, a kiss, and a mutual caress on each other's rear.

Then they tore each other's clothes off completely, right then and there. It was now as it would always be for them, in this reality, each night they in Scott's room, reenacting the whole "Kwannon and the Klaxon" scene that they did in the bungalow; each of them never making it to Scott's bed, night after night of this, as with the bungalow and the beach the two remained with one another on the floor/ground, enjoying one another and one another's respective void, till sweet uninterrupted slumber overtook them; each of them exhibitionists for one another exclusively now, even though it was true that they somewhat "got around" to other people just after the nuke job, and Scott did actually have Daisy and Yukio etc, just like Kwannon had her own fair share of patrons in Nudripoor—but now that was all behind them, and Scott and Kwannon were now all about a monogamy that was as morally murky as could possibly be.

"No matter what befalls us in the future, Kwan," the courageous X-Leader promised to his lady, holding her nude form tightly to his own unclothed one outside that staid sanitarium of a Mansion, "we'll always, all of us, be NUKE-NUDES FOREVER!"

AFTERWORD

I hope as always that people enjoyed the story. Again, this was primarily a parody of X-Men Forever and especially the Annual, although there were moments otherwise in Forever that I targeted here as well.

Namely, among other things, you might be wondering why I might have seemed to have been so tough on Jean. The thing is this: If you look at X-Men Forever Volume 1, Issue 24 (the last issue, not counting the Giant Size issue), Jean is very tough on Scott, and IMO undeservedly so. Unlike in Morrison, for example, where Scott acts like a complete jerk, here Scott is your standard Nineties noble guy (if somewhat of a flat action figure), and Jean is cold towards the idea of helping him run the mansion, as well as be anything more than a bare acquaintance to him. Jean in Forever 1:24 also even says things like "The men I love had died for this dream," meaning Logan and Hank, right in front of Scott, and she then immediately forecloses discussion on the matter. Again, as I said before, I totally understand that Jean has a right to get around a bit, as Scott did in Morrisonland; hell, I even believe that at least subliminally, if you think about it, Forever (at least the first volume) was Claremont giving the reader a release of a sort as to the damage Scott caused Jean in Morrison…kind of like how Madelyne got her revenge on Scott in Inferno (and I'm going to revisit Scott and Madelyne in another story this month, as well as one next month).

Still, Jean was very hard on Scott nonetheless. ALSO, in Forever Volume 2, for the entire series, EXCEPT for the last page of the last issue (Issue 16), Scott and Jean have no moments with one another whatsoever (no dramatic moments at all). Then, at the end of Forever 2:16, Jean approaches Scott and says "Look at you…all grown up…a leader in every sense of the word" and cups her hand to his cheek…then they kind of get back together. It is the most tacked-on reconciliation I have EVER seen…and I understand that it's probably because Claremont wasn't anticipating that perhaps the series was being cancelled or something (that's how it felt here at the end of Forever 2:16) and he wanted to tie it together abruptly. It's just forced, and Jean even sounds condescending, even though that probably was not what Claremont was going for. Also, it's granted that Scott has been acting like a child in his gallivanting with Emma this past millennium, but in the Nineties, he was "grown up" enough as it was before Jean dumped his ass, and he didn't need "growing" any more than that. The end of that issue just left me, and I'm sure at least a few other readers, pretty cold.

Well, in any case, I enjoyed writing this story, and as with some others I've done, it's like a release for me to write them and have an alternate reality of my own where I can set up something that might have been nice to have happened…as with any other fan fiction:) (I'm just sayin'). As I kind of said above in the story, by the way, the poor attempts at poetry above were somewhat inspired by the verse of the British poet Robert Herrick (who wrote "Gather ye rosebuds while ye may" so many centuries ago). Herrick was very amorous (and very ugly), but he managed to get the girls, so to speak, with his lines, some of which were a bit bodily graphic at the time. See "Upon Julia's Breasts," which Herrick wrote, as an example. The above were my own odes to the voids of Kwannon and Scott, which again were respectively inspired by, for Kwannon, X-Men Volume 2 Issue 5 Page 3 upper right panel (which I read one person's blog saying was "likely the sexiest render of Psylocke ever," and I'm sure others would agree)…and for Scott, the covers of X-Factor Volume 1 Issues 1 and 67, which have been discussed online for the bizarre groin blackouts…which make sense, if you think about it, given Cyclops's skintight suits.

Finally, I will go on the record and freely affirm what has been made more or less abundantly clear throughout this entire narrative: I am irretrievably and unconditionally in love with Kwannon's navel, and someday I will marry it. Call me what you will; my heart will never stray on this. Anyway, I hope everyone is doing well, and I look forward to writing and posting again soon.


End file.
